Two Days in the Valley
by TheGryfter
Summary: 11 years ago, Dean Winchester - plagued by unfamiliar doubts - took a road trip to clear his head. Do some thinking. Get back on even keel. Little did he know, he was heading straight for his future...
1. Call of the Road

**TWO DAYS IN THE VALLEY**

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Call of the Road

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_11 October, 1999_

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Dean Winchester was not a man given to introspection.

Dean saw the world for what it was.

The real world - the snarling, crawling, bloody shadow underbelly of the world that made most people break out in cold sweats - and he dealt with it everyday.

If you came across something you didn't understand, you figured it out and you dealt with it.

If something attacked you, you put a bullet between it's eyes and you asked questions later.

It was the only way to survive.

Even at eighteen, Dean understood this.

For the last fourteen years, his father had taught him the value of not thinking too much.

In a world filled with ghosts, demons, phantoms, changelings and a million other creatures intent on human destruction, too much thinking could cause paralysis.

The one split second of hesitation that could get you dead.

Or worse, take the life of someone you loved.

That's why Dean was struggling now.

For the past few months, his focus had been shifting. He found himself dwelling on things – mostly subjects his fourteen year old brother Sam coughed up. Things like… _Why are we always on the move? Why can't I just be a regular kid in a regular school? _And, worst of all… _What really happened to mom? _

Dean was ashamed to say that he resented his brother's boldness.

Dean had burned with the same questions at Sam's age – that gawky time when a teenager's trying to figure out just why the world sucks so much – but he'd never dared voice those thoughts aloud.

Because Dean had a greater purpose. And his own understanding and sense of self came a distant second.

Dean had been brought up to protect Sam. To ensure his brother's safety at all costs. Even if that meant shutting up and doing what he was told for most of his life.

And now it was Sam himself who was shattering that well-constructed sense of order that Dean had imposed.

The worst came just three days ago. The three Winchesters had been rooting out a Merelick in South Carolina. A tiny village on the water that had, by all accounts, been plagued by the shape-shifting monsters for decades.

Merelicks were once humans, but had succumbed to cannibalism, and now took the form of animals, attacking with a ferocity and cunning that was almost impossible to counter. These particular Merelicks favoured the forms of large gators, prowling the shallows for unsuspecting fishermen.

On the third night of the Hunt, they'd split up. John had taken the west bank of the beach, leaving Dean in charge of Sam. Prowling through the reeds, with Sam sniffling along behind him, Dean's eyes came to rest on the reflection of the moon on the water.

And he froze.

A memory flashed in, whispering at him from a forgotten childhood…

_Sitting in his mom's lap, cuddled up and warm by a lakeside, the three-year old Dean pointed at the large silver disk that seemed to bounce along the water. _

"_Look, mom! Look!" he'd shouted, "The moon is dancing!"_

Entranced, Dean turned to Sam, about to tell him about the scene he'd only now recalled when he saw it. A dark shape, barely visible through the reeds that was rushing up behind them.

Dean's instinct was all that saved them.

Reaching out with his left hand, Dean had flung Sam aside, ignoring his brother's cries as he hit the water with a mighty splash.

With his right hand, Dean cocked the large shotgun he carried, and brought it to bear just as a huge shape shot out of the water with a mighty roar.

Dean got off two shots, before the thing hit him, knocking the shotgun out of his hands and driving the air from his lungs as he crashed beneath the surface.

Unable to draw breath, Dean thrashed and struggled, finally managing to wrench himself clear of the massive carcass that was weighing him down.

He'd gotten lucky.

His shotgun blast took the Merelick on the underside of it's belly, ripping through the tendons and piercing it's internal organs, killing it instantly.

Otherwise, Dean and Sam would both be dead.

Of course, John berated him when they reported back.

Actually, that was putting it mildly. John ripped him a couple of new ones.

Dean was grateful that his brother had stood up for him, painting the events in such a way that Dean came across as a fast-thinking, quick-acting hero.

But Dean knew the truth.

He'd allowed himself to get distracted, and he'd almost gotten his brother killed.

So, the next day, he'd gone to his father and asked for some time off.

The family was on their way to Orlando to investigate reports of a banshee. It was a simple enough case, that John and Sam didn't actually need Dean to get through it.

He just wanted out for a couple of days. Some time on the road by himself, so he could sort through these thoughts and fears that were suddenly plaguing him. And, hopefully, lay them to rest so he could go back to doing his job.

John, for his part, seemed to understand and agreed without argument. To Dean's astonishment, John even offered him the car – a '67 Chevy Impala – saying that he would rent a temporary car to make the haul to Orlando.

So, behind the wheel of the car he had coveted all his life, Dean left his brother and father behind and hit the open road.

He shot straight north, passing through Atlanta, Tennessee and Kentucky in a matter of days.

He slept in sleazy motels and hustled pool in roadside dives.

All the time he just wanted to keep moving – set his compass north and not look back.

Maybe then he could escape the memories that haunted him. The flames that had flared when he was just four years old, and had dogged his path ever since.

His thoughts were sombre and dark as he shot over his fourth state line in four days – just after 10 pm. He was tired, having been on the road since 3, but he didn't want to find a motel. Not yet.

Just some place to unwind and knock back a couple of frosties… that would do just fine.

Half an hour later, his headlights lit up a roadsign, and Dean slowed.

Perfect.

Grinning to himself, he hit the gas again, roaring past the sign that read:

"_Now entering Cicero, Indiana. _

_Careful… don't leave your heart behind…"_

_._

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_._


	2. Beauties and Bar Brawls

Beauties and Bar Brawls

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"Double Jack. Straight up."

The bartender gave Dean the once-over. Dean tried to look manly. He failed.

"ID?"

Dean opted for a smile he hoped was charming.

"Come on…" he urged, "You don't need to see my ID. I can tell you my name."

"ID," said the bartender, unmoved.

"You sure?" said Dean, "It's a strange name. People keep tellin' me, you got a real strange name. Wanna hear it?"

"ID,' said the bartender, for the third time.

"I'll tell ya anyway," said Dean, digging in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, "It's Ulysses S Grant…"

He slapped a fifty dollar bill on the counter, and slid it across until the folded note hit the bartender's planted, meaty hand. The burly man hesitated for a second, then flicked the note off the counter so fast Dean didn't even see the move. The man turned away and poured Dean's drink.

Smiling gratefully, Dean swivelled round on the barstool and took a long sip as he scanned the room.

It was no different from any of a hundred bars Dean had been in over the last couple of years. It smelled of stale beer and dirt. A jukebox in the corner. An array of pool tables, and a lot of customers hunched over their drinks in moody silence – like they wished they were anywhere else.

Out of habit Dean checked out every person in the place – letting his eyes flick over them for the briefest of seconds, relying on his honed senses to pick out threats.

There were none.

Satisfied that the bar was – most probably – populated by humans only, Dean started scoping out the talent.

There were a few candidates.

A group of girls near the jukebox, sipping on brightly coloured seltzers and dancing to the music – currently Bon Jovi's _Blaze of Glory_.

A cute blonde at the end of the bar who kept making a point of _not _ looking his way.

And another…

A pretty brunette in tight jeans, playing pool with a group of guys.

Dean studied their game for a moment and realised that the girl was kicking their asses!

"_You go girl…"_ he thought, before turning his attention back to the blonde.

He waited for her to look at him, like he knew she would, and flashed her a dazzling smile.

She smiled back.

Bingo!

Slipping off the barstool with the grace of a cheetah, Dean sauntered over to her. He leaned his elbow on the counter, his eyes locked to hers, and said…

Nothing.

He just kept up the pose and stared at her.

Ten seconds went by, and the girl's smile started to fade.

"Can I help you?" she said.

"Yeah, sorry…" said Dean, "I'm just trying to think of a line. I'm a little slow."

"Take your time."

Dean kept staring. He counted down another ten seconds in his head, then…

"I got nothing," he admitted, "I know every line ever slung out and not one… not one… comes close to being good enough for a woman as gorgeous as you."

The girl's smile rocketed up a few notches and she leaned back, exposing her… generous cleavage.

"I'm Anna," she said, offering a hand.

"Dean."

Instead of shaking the proffered hand, Dean grasped it and drew it up to his lips, planting a soft kiss on each knuckle.

The girl giggled.

"_Too easy…"_ thought Dean.

"So, Anna…" he said out loud, "What do you do?"

"Receptionist," she answered, "You?"

"Just a drifter, baby…"

"A drifter?" she looked confused.

"Yeah," said Dean, "Like the song."

"What song?"

She was confused. Dean was surprised that she wouldn't know which song he was talking about. Especially in a bar like this.

"Whitesnake. Here I Go Again."

The voice came from behind him, and he turned around.

It was the pool-playing brunette.

Up close, Dean revised his estimate of her. She wasn't just pretty. She was spectacular.

Deep, dark eyes under heavy brows, and a shaggy mane of hair – there was a wildness, a sassiness about her that stirred something terrifying inside him.

"You know it?" said Dean.

"Obviously."

She grabbed a beer from the barman – long-necked, ice-cold – and retreated back to her game without giving him a second look. Dean chuckled.

"Can you play it for me?"

Anna's voice snapped Dean out of thoughts that – had they continued – would have been very x-rated.

He turned around again and smiled at her, easing the frown which the presence of the brunette had placed on her brow.

"Sure," said Dean, "I think you'll like it."

"I like that new girl," said Anna, "What's her name? Uh… Britney… something! Arrows?"

"Who?"

It was Dean's turn to be confused.

Before he could interrogate her on her obviously-questionable taste in music, he heard the crash of a pool cue hitting slate, followed by:

"You think I'm gonna let you get away with this, you crazy bitch?"

Setting his drink down, Dean turned back to face the pool tables, where three of the guys had squared up to the knockout brunette. Dean noted, with some admiration, that she wasn't backing down from them. In fact, she casually sipped her beer as she looked each of them straight in the eye.

"You lost," she said, "Pay up!"

"The hell we will! You think you can hustle us and get away with it?"

One of the guys, a gym-junkie with a crew cut took a threatening step towards her.

She took a step back. But only because, if she hadn't, he would've knocked her clean over.

Dean decided he'd seen enough.

He crossed the bar in three quick strides, coming up alongside the brunette – right in Crew-Cut's face.

"Okay, guys, that's enough," he said, "It doesn't take three of you to pick on a woman, does it?"

"What are you gonna do about it?" Weenie-Number-Two, a sour-faced porker with chopped ginger hair turned his weasely eyes on Dean.

"Just sayin'… there's no need for this to get outta hand."

"It's okay," said the girl, putting a hand on his arm and trying to draw him back, "I got this."

"You got trouble's, what you got, you cheating bitch!"

This was from the last guy – the shortest of the three, with a snake tattoo on his cheek.

Dean immediately stepped in front of the girl, placing himself between her and Tattoo-Face.

"There are two ways this is gonna end," said Dean, his voice low and even, "Either you walk outta here… or these two chuckleheads carry you out…"

"Oh yeah?" Tattoo-Face stepped even closer, so that Dean caught the reek of cheap beer on his breath.

"Enough!"

The girl tried to tug him away again, but Dean shrugged her off. A quick flick around the room revealed that he now had a crowd. The patrons were all watching the drama intently while the barman – to the joy of all stereotypes – was wiping glasses and pretending to ignore them.

Dean focused on Tattoo-Face, his lips curling up in a taunting smile.

"I'm gonna count to three," said Dean.

Tattoo-Face sneered.

"One…"

Tattoo-Face tensed, obviously determined to stay put.

"Two…"

Then Dean cheated.

Without bothering to count to three, he planted his left heel, transferring his weight backwards, before launching forward, and catching Tattoo-Face smack on the bridge of the nose with a vicious head butt.

The man went down like a puppet with it's strings cut.

Before he hit the ground, Dean swung his right elbow up, connecting with the side of Porker's temple.

But he'd miscalculated.

The third guy – Crew-Cut – was too close and reacted too fast.

As Dean swivelled to face him, ready to launch a clubbing overhand blow, Crew-Cut caught him in the midriff with a solid uppercut.

The air exploded from Dean's lungs, pain lancing through his side, and he bent double. Crew-Cut got a large, meaty hand on his throat, and hoisted Dean up in the air, before slamming him back down onto the pool table.

Dean's head cracked against a stray ball and he saw stars for a second.

Crew-Cut was leaning over him, his teeth bared in an ugly grimace.

Fuzzily, Dean thought he looked a little like that wrestler, Jake the Snake Roberts.

Then, Crew-Cut seemed to choke. His lips puckered up in a disturbing parody of a kiss, and his eyes went crossed. He mewled, like a kicked kitten, and released the pressure on Dean's windpipe.

Almost in slow-motion, Crew-Cut tipped over sideways and hit the floor.

Dean sat up, gasping for breath and rubbing at his sore throat.

He saw the girl, her eyes blazing, standing over the prone figure of Crew-Cut. Then he realised what had just happened.

She'd kicked the bastard in the nads!

Dean grinned.

"Thanks," he said.

Her eyes flicked up at him, and he winced, without knowing why.

She looked pissed.

"You just had to get involved, didn't you?" she said.

"You're welcome," Dean countered, now thoroughly put out by her less-than-grateful attitude.

"I didn't need your help."

"Well, next time I'll know that."

"You'd better."

"So there's going to be a next time?"

Dean didn't know why he said that. She didn't look like she was in the mood for teasing.

But, suddenly, she smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through after a storm. Dean found that he couldn't breathe, and it had nothing to do with being strangled twenty seconds ago.

"I'm Dean," he choked.

"Hi Dean, " she punched him on the arm, "I'm Lisa…"

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	3. Storm Warning

Storm Warning

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"Ouch!"

"Don't be such a baby!"

Dean winced as Lisa held a makeshift ice-pack – a bunch of ice cubes wrapped up in a dirty bar cloth – to the back of his head where he'd had his close encounter with the pool ball.

Dean could literally feel the spot swelling up.

"Looks nasty," said Lisa, in a completely detached voice, "Not even a goose egg. More like an ostrich egg."

"Feels like an elephant egg," said Dean.

"Elephants don't lay eggs."

"Exactly! See how scrambled my brains are?"

"Yeah, coz I'm sure you were a man of breathtaking insight before this…"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He was starting to get really annoyed by her lack of sympathy. He was hurting! She was supposed to show compassion, and maybe offer him a sponge bath… that's just how it went!

"You chose to get involved," Lisa pointed out.

"I thought you needed help."

"Why? Because I'm a woman?"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"No, because if I was in a three-on-one situation, I hope somebody would try to back me up."

Lisa took a step back, and studied him intently. Dean found her penetrating gaze slightly uncomfortable.

"It was a stupid thing to do."

"I agree," said Dean, "And I have the war wound to prove it."

For the first time, she smiled. And, knowing this girl for all of five minutes, Dean counted that as a monumental victory.

The silence drew out between them.

Dean shifted on his stool, and Lisa fidgeted.

Dean turned his attention back to the barman, signalling for another round.

"You shouldn't drink," said Lisa, "Not after a blow to the head like that."

"Is lecture-mode your default setting?" asked Dean.

"Fine."

She signalled for her own refill.

"I got this," said Dean, taking out his wallet.

"That's okay, I'll pay," she said.

Dean groaned and increased the pressure on the ice-pack. He didn't want to argue anymore. Truth was, his thoughts were a little fuzzy.

There might be a hint of a concussion.

Lisa paid for their drinks and settled down on the seat beside him. He was acutely aware of her presence… particularly the way she smelled… a heady mix of perfume and sweat. Not gross _guy sweat_, but the kind of sweat girls give off after… well… anyway, it was awesome.

And it made him fidget even more.

Suddenly he frowned, and then smiled.

"They're playing our song," he said.

_I'm just another heart in need of rescue__  
__Waiting on love's sweet charity__  
__An' I'm gonna hold on__  
__For the rest of my days__  
__Cos I know what it means__  
__To walk along the lonely street of dreams_

_An' here I go again on my own__  
__Going down the only road I've ever known__  
__Like a drifter I was born to walk alone__  
__An' I've made up my mind__  
__I ain't wasting no more time_

_But here I go again__  
__Here I go again__  
__Here I go again__  
__Here I go again_

_Cos I know what it means__  
__To walk along the lonely street of dreams_

"It's not our song," said Lisa, though Dean caught the smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

"It will be when I tell this story," he replied.

"You're going to tell people how a girl had to save your ass in a bar fight?"

"In my stories I'm always the hero."

"Really?" said Lisa, "So that's you, is it? The drifter winding down the lonely road… breezing into town just in time to save the girl?"

"Something like that…"

She was staring at him again. She had a way of doing it that freaked the hell out of him. Like she was looking right past everything he was saying and seeing the real him. The one nobody got to see.

Not ever.

The moment was broken when the bartender asked, "You guys mind if I check the score?"

Dean looked up. The bartender was standing under a TV that was bracketed to the wall. Dean shrugged.

"Sure. Go ahead."

He clicked it on, and the familiar noise of a football game washed away the rest of the lyrics of the song before the bartender turned the sound down. Dean didn't know who was playing. He didn't care.

"So, what is your story?" asked Lisa.

"My story?"

"Yeah. Who is Dean…? I'm sorry, I didn't catch your last name."

"Winchester."

"Like the rifle?"

Dean nodded.

"Well…?"

"It's not a very interesting story," Dean hedged.

"Try me."

"I'm a travelling guitar salesman."

"Try again."

"A roadie for a circus."

"Nope."

"I'm a former Navy-Seal who went rogue, and now I'm on the run from the government."

Back to the staring. Dean glared.

"What?" he demanded.

"If you didn't want to tell me, all you had to do was say so."

Dean sighed.

"I'm sorry, Lisa…?"

"Braeden."

"Braeden," he repeated, "It's just… my job, it's not… it's not something I like to talk about."

"Fair enough."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," she shrugged, "We just met, Dean. You don't owe me anything. Least of all an explanation."

"Then why do I feel like I do?"

Lisa actually considered the question for a moment. She looked like she was really thinking about it, then:

"Maybe because you want to talk?" she suggested, "I get the feeling you don't do that a lot."

"Why?" asked Dean, "I'm not smooth enough?"

"You're too smooth," she said, "Everything out of your mouth is a line. Like it's rehearsed. Like you spend your life pretending to be someone else."

Damn! This chick was good!

"Guess you got me all figured out, huh?"

"No," she shook her head, "And I'm not sure if I want to."

"What?"

Suddenly, she slid off her stool.

"I need the bathroom," she announced.

"Wait," said Dean, "What did you mean by that?"

But she was gone. Dean grunted in annoyance, turning his attention to the screen above him.

Dean watched the game for a couple of minutes without really absorbing anything. His mind was racing.

What was it about this girl that bothered him so much?

Why did she have to look at him with such… pity? Like she'd seen his type a million times before and wasn't going to fall for it.

And why, dear God, why… did she have to be so unbelievably hot?

If she wasn't, maybe he could just forget about her.

The game went to half-time, and after a couple of commercials, including one with a stupid singing bear, the local news came on. The legend in the tiny video-window over the newsreader's shoulder caught Dean's attention.

_Freak Lightning Storms._

"Hey, buddy," Dean got the bartender's attention, "Can you turn that up?"

The man stepped over to the TV and raised the volume.

"…_all over Clark County," _the newsreader was saying, _"The state has ordered official warnings to Camden, Tannen and Cicero. The storms have destroyed crops and interrupted commerce, prompting officials to issue the warning."_

"Oh, crap…" Dean muttered.

"What's wrong?" asked Lisa, perching back up on the stool beside him.

"What?" said Dean, "Oh, uh… nothing."

She frowned at him, clearly not buying it.

"They're issuing a storm warning," said Dean, "Probably won't be able to drive for a couple of days."

"Oh," she said, "Well, I'm sure you can stay with Tinkerbelle while you're in town."

"Who?"

"The blonde you were hitting on before," said Lisa, "She cornered me in the bathroom."

"She did?"

Lisa nodded, "Seemed really upset, too," she said, "Accused me of… horning in on her territory."

Suddenly, Lisa grinned, "Is that what I did? Did I horn?"

"I'm not touching that one," Dean muttered, his eyes flicking back up to the screen, "But whatever… you should probably get home."

"Why?" she asked, "It's just a storm."

Dean wanted to tell her that it wasn't just a storm. The extent, and the intensity of it painted it for what it was… an omen.

Demon sign.

But he couldn't tell her that.

"I just… have a bad feeling about it, Okay?" he said, "You'll be safe at home."

"What about you?" she asked.

"I'll find a motel."

Lisa glanced from Dean's concerned face, to the screen, and back again.

"Is it really going to be that bad?" she asked.

"Worse," said Dean, "I've seen these types of… storms… before."

Her brow knitted at his reluctance to say _storms_, but she seemed to shrug it off.

"Then you shouldn't stay at a motel," she said.

"My car will be worse," said Dean.

"I have a couch."

Dean stared at her, completely thrown.

"What?"

"It's pretty comfortable."

"You're inviting me to stay with you?"

"On my couch," she stressed, "It's not a big deal."

"You make it a habit to take home strangers you meet in bars?" he asked.

She cocked an eyebrow, a cheeky smile on her face.

"If you turn out to be some sort of psychopath, I think I can take you," she said, "I've seen you fight."

Dean laughed.

"Okay," he said, "Let's go."

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	4. In Light and Shadow

In Light and Shadow

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The mother of all storms was breaking outside.

Dean hurried after Lisa as she dashed across the parking lot, head ducked into the face of the howling wind and the driving rain. She reached her car and jumped inside. Dean climbed into the Impala and hurriedly shut the door.

He had a bad, bad feeling about this.

As Lisa fired up her car – a cute little red foreign thing, the name of which Dean was determined never to try and pronounce – he checked his watch, noting that it was the top of the hour. He flipped on the radio, searching for a local news station.

He listened intently as he followed Lisa out of the parking lot, and through the drenched streets of Cicero.

Dean was listening for clues… indicators of what he was already pretty sure was coming.

The people reading the news didn't know enough to piece together the disparate strands of information carried in their newscasts – how the search for arsonists responsible for fires in three homes over the past week, or the disappearance of two kids from opposite ends of the county, allied with the storms converging on the area like the coming of Armageddon all added up to one thing… Demons!

Either a lot of them, or one powerful demon.

Either way, it was going to get very ugly, very fast.

Soon, Dean had to switch off the radio just to concentrate on driving. He was relying on Lisa to get them somewhere, so he was forced to stay as close to her back bumper as possible, while still keeping enough distance that he'd had have time to brake on the slippery road without ramming right into her.

They wound through the streets – visibility almost zero.

They reached the edge of the town centre, where businesses gave way to the suburbs. Large plots of land on either side of oak-lined streets. It looked more like farmland than anything else.

Dean was concentrating so hard on Lisa's tail-lights that he didn't react for a second when a vivid bolt of lightning struck the road directly in front of them.

It lit up the windscreen like a sunburst and he was blinded for a moment. He blinked it away in time to see Lisa swerve off the road, careening for a deep ditch.

Dean imagined that he heard the crunch of metal as the front grill hit the far side of the ditch and the car came to a halt.

He hit the brakes hard, the tail of the Impala swinging out dangerously as he tried to pull up next to her. Eventually the car skidded to a halt and he jumped out.

Dean ignored the raindrops the size of golf balls as he slid down the shallow embankment, planting his hands on the roof of her car in order to stop his slide. He crabbed sideways until he reached her door and wrenched it open.

"Hey!" he called, above the sound of the wind, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," said Lisa, freeing herself from the confines of her seatbelt, "I think so. I mean… I'm fine."

Dean bent down, examining the earth under the wheels. It was like a pool of muddy water.

"You'll never be able to back it out of here," he told her, "Better to leave it and come back when the storm passes."

"Okay," said Lisa, "Just let me get my things."

She grabbed her purse and switched off the ignition. She grasped Dean's hand and he helped her out of the car, where her stylish boots sank a good few inches into the mud.

"This is crazy…" she muttered.

Keeping a firm hold on her arm, Dean helped her around the car and, leaning on each other, they slogged their way back up the embankment and onto the road.

Then the lightning struck again.

They were thrown backward as a series of brilliant bolts hit the surface of the road, each a couple of feet apart, seemingly in a pattern.

Dean, holding his arm up to shield his eyes, stared in wonder at the light show in front of him.

Eight… nine… ten bolts of lightning all striking in a six-foot radius in a matter of seconds.

And the sound… like the inside of a volcano as it ruptures.

Then everything went still.

Even the rain seemed to slow to a gentle patter.

Bright spots were still popping behind Dean's eyes, and his ears felt like they were filled with gauze, but he carefully levered himself to his feet, helping Lisa up behind him.

"What the hell was that?" Lisa demanded.

Dean shook his head, but didn't answer.

Instead, he grabbed his keys from his pocket and eased his way to the trunk of his car – all the while scanning their surroundings, looking for anything out of place. Lisa crept up behind him, trembling from more than just the chill of the rain.

Dean popped the trunk, and lifted the false bottom – exposing the arsenal of weapons hidden underneath.

Lisa's breath caught: "What the hell…?"

Dean ignored her. Instead, he propped up the bottom and started rummaging through the eclectic mix of items grouped on the floor of the trunk – jars of holy oil, hex bags, books on the occult and a number of handguns, rifles and shotguns. He pulled out his favourite sawn-off shotgun and cracked the release on the barrel, checking the load. It was filled with rock salt.

"What are you doing?" Lisa demanded.

Before Dean could answer, he was gripped by an invisible force that lifted him from his feet. He dropped the gun as he went flying through the air, crashing down on the roof of Lisa's car. He heard the windows shatter as a lance of pain was driven straight up his spine. Dean gasped for breath, and a cascade of rainwater forced it's way into his mouth and down his gullet.

Almost screaming with pain, Dean managed to roll over and slide down the back windshield, coming to rest on the trunk.

"Lisa!" he called, without looking, "Get outta here!"

He managed to find his feet and turn around.

And there it was…

A figure on the crest of the embankment.

A man – no more than a silhouette against the storm.

Dean's eyes flicked right and left, but he couldn't see any sign of Lisa.

He was gripped with a sudden, terrible fear.

"What the hell have you done with her, you sonofabitch?"

The figure took a step forward, and now Dean could just make out the features of a swarthy middle-aged man.

"I'm not here for her, Winchester," said the figure, "I'm here for you…"

Afterwards, Dean was almost sure he imagined what happened next. The man took another step forward just as the clouds broke and a shaft of moonlight hit his face.

His eyes. They were… wrong.

They were yellow.

The man lifted his hand, and it was like a clamp snapped shut on Dean's insides. He gasped in agony as he was slowly lifted up the side of the car – as helpless as an insect while his organs burned.

BOOM!

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The distinct blast of gunfire and the man jerked and spasmed, the psychic link between him and Dean suddenly severed. Dean collapsed to the ground as the man raised his head, and screamed.

A rushing plume of black smoke shot from his mouth, screaming off into the dark sky, and the figure collapsed face-first on the side of the road.

Dean was struggling just to breathe.

He raised his head, and saw Lisa appear above him, his shotgun clutched in her hands.

Dean closed his eyes as his heart rate returned to normal.

When he looked at her again, he noted how pale she was. The shotgun was shaking she was holding it so tight.

"Guess I owe you one…" he muttered, still knee-deep in mud.

"Two…" she corrected him, her voice a bit choked, "One, for shooting this guy. And two for rearranging the bar-thugs love life."

Dean laughed.

He laughed and laughed… even though it hurt.

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	5. Truth in the Night

Truth in the Night

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Lisa lived in what turned out to be the top floor of a large, converted farmhouse. A family of four lived in the rooms below, and she stayed in a type of loft. It was small, but cozy. The furniture was minimal, but it seemed like she'd chosen the style on purpose, to take advantage of what space she had.

Dean's eyes immediately fell on the plush couch in the corner. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this tired - especially after digging a shallow grave for the formerly-possessed man with severely bruised ribs.

"You can take a shower, if you want," said Lisa, "Warm up a little."

"You go first," said Dean, "I need to make a couple calls, if you don't mind."

"Sure," said Lisa, "Phone's over there."

She pointed to the little table next to the couch, which held the phone, and disappeared into her bedroom. Dean shrugged off his jacket, and carefully laid it down on the couch, the inside lining facing down so he wouldn't stain it with his wet clothes.

He waited until he heard the shower start up before he made his first call.

His dad had recently gotten a cellphone, and Dean wasn't surprised when he got John's Voicemail.

"_It's John. You know what to do…"_

"Dad," said Dean, "Listen… I'm in Cicero, Indiana, and I think you and Sam better get up here quick. It's, uh… it's here, dad. The thing we've been looking for. I saw it. All the omens match. Just… please, just hurry… When you get this, leave a message the usual way."

Dean depressed the cradle, disconnecting the call, then dialled another number. This one just rang… and rang…

"Come on, Bobby…" Dean muttered.

No luck. Bobby Singer wasn't answering. Dean hung up.

Rubbing at his eyes, he tried to think.

Who else could he call?

As a rule, the Winchesters didn't trust other Hunters. Even for a group which, for the most part, flirted with the wrong side of crazy, John Winchester was considered a nutcase.

For one thing, most Hunters didn't believe in demons. Dean himself had only started believing when he saw John exorcise one last year.

Dean tried one more number – Father John – and again got no answer.

He was on his own.

Moving swiftly – and causing several painful jolts to his injured back – Dean unzipped his duffel bag and removed several hex bags. These he placed at every window. For extra precaution, he salted the door and windows too. All except the one in the bathroom.

Dean hesitated outside the door, the bag of salt still clutched in his hand. He could still hear Lisa in the shower and wondered if he should risk it.

He told himself he had no choice – it would be infinitely worse if the demon had followed them somehow, and got in before she was done.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, Dean opened the door. It squeaked a little and he froze, waiting for Lisa's scream of protest.

It didn't come, so he slipped inside. It took him a second to adjust his eyes, as the cramped bathroom was filled with steam. Crossing quickly to the window, he poured down a line of salt. He made his way back to the door, and glanced back at the shower to make sure she was still busy.

He froze again.

The shower door was made of frosted glass, but he could still see the silhouette of her body underneath the cascading jets of water. She had her hands up, holding her hair, with her back arched to let the water stream down her front.

Thoughts of demons and death fled Dean's mind.

He had to literally shake himself to gather his wits and leave the bathroom.

He was back on the couch, cooled down a bit, when Lisa re-emerged. She was wearing a pair of shorts and a simple, sheer t-shirt that clung to her still damp body. Her hair tumbled down over her shoulders in dancing curls.

Dean made a point of staring at the floor.

"I tried to leave some hot water for you," she said, "I'll make us coffee while you're busy."

"Right, okay…" Dean grunted, still not looking at her.

The shower helped. The scalding water seemed to penetrate his muscles, easing them so they no longer stood out like rods of corded iron. He started to relax.

And think…

The demon was here.

_The _demon.

Okay, all that John had was a vague suspicion that some powerful demon had somehow been behind the death of Dean's mother, but it was all they had to go on.

The only reason Dean knew about any of this was because of a conversation he'd overheard between John and Bobby.

He hadn't told his father that he knew, but since then, Dean had picked up a pattern to the Hunts John chose.

He looked for certain signs and omens – constantly – always searching for the creature who'd ended Mary Winchester's life.

And now, maybe, just maybe… that creature was here.

And he knew who Dean was…

Choosing not to dwell on that, Dean turned off the shower. He dried himself off and slipped on a fresh pair of clothes – sweatpants and a t-shirt.

He found Lisa in the little kitchenette. She was standing at the window, rubbing a few grains of salt through her fingers. Dean hurried up to the window to make sure there was no break in the line.

"Why did you put salt on the windows?" she asked.

She didn't look angry – just… curious.

Dean wondered what to tell her.

The truth?

She'd been through a lot already tonight, and he wondered if he should add to it.

"Does it have anything to do with that man?" she asked, "The one I killed?"

"You didn't kill him," said Dean, "He was probably already dead."

"A dead man walking and talking," she said, "Who appears in a flash of lightning… Yeah, that makes me feel better."

"I'm sorry," said Dean.

Lisa just shrugged and shook her head. She grabbed a cup of coffee and retreated to the couch. There was a second cup on the counter. Helping himself, Dean joined her. Lisa was just sipping at the warm brew – robotically – staring into space.

Dean decided to wait – let her form whatever questions she had. Then, he could decide what to answer.

Finally, she went with: "Who are you?"

"What do you mean?" asked Dean.

"When I saw all those guns… I thought that Navy Seal story of yours might not be so far-fetched."

"I'm an avid hunter," said Dean, deciding a half-truth would suffice.

"Since when do hunters use shotguns or Berettas?"

"Um…" Dean cracked a smile, "You know your guns, huh?"

"Look," said Lisa, swivelling so that she was facing him directly, "I know I said you don't owe me any explanations, but… After what happened back there…"

"Okay, okay…" said Dean, holding up a hand.

But then he hesitated again.

It was never easy, exposing _normal_ people to the truth.

In many ways, Dean's childhood would seem horrible to someone on the outside, but he had grown up knowing what was out there. For someone like Lisa, she'd gone her whole life seeing the world a certain way… Could he really take that perception and shatter it?

"Tell me," she said.

He looked up at her face. Her jaw was set, and there was determination in her eyes. And something else…

Strength.

He'd seen it when she'd grabbed his shotgun and emptied it into the demon.

This girl was strong.

"The guy you shot was a demon," said Dean, "That's what that black smoke was. It was a demon possessing a body."

"Okay…" said Lisa, releasing a deep breath, "So, demons are real?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, "Also ghosts, werewolves, most stuff you read about in horror stories… chances are there's a grain of truth to it."

"You're not kidding," said Lisa, suddenly rising to her feet.

"No," said Dean.

She paced up and down in front of him, gulping at the coffee now. Then she stopped.

"How do you know all this?"

"I sort of… Hunt them," Dean explained, "Me, my dad, my brother… We've been doing it for years."

"Why?"

The question was so simple that Dean was stumped for an answer. He gaped at her, unsure what to say.

"Why?" she asked again.

"Somebody's got to," he said.

Lisa shook her head. Then she smiled. Then she laughed.

Dean recognised the laugh.

She was a bundle of nerves, and this was the only way to release it. She sank back onto the couch and ran a hand through her hair.

"God…" she whispered, "And all I wanted was to go out for a beer…"

"I'm sorry," said Dean, edging away from her, "If you hadn't met me…"

"Don't," said Lisa, "Please, don't do that. It's not your fault. I think…"

She trailed off.

"What?" Dean prompted.

"I think I'm just going to go to bed."

"Yeah," said Dean, "Try and get some rest. This won't seem so… scary… in the morning."

She nodded.

"I'll get you a blanket and a pillow," she said, disappearing into the bedroom.

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.

.

An hour later, Dean was still wide awake. Despite the slight chill in the air, he was laying on top of the blanket, just staring at the ceiling.

He was acutely aware of Lisa in the next room.

The fact that she was so close was making it hard to sleep.

He jerked up when he heard the sound of a floorboard creaking, his hand shooting under the pillow and grabbing the gun he'd stashed there.

"Dean?" it was Lisa.

"Hey," he said, surreptitiously returning the gun to it's place.

"I can't sleep," she said.

"Yeah, neither can I," he admitted.

"Could you… could you join me?" she asked, in the most timid tone he'd heard since he'd met her, "I don't… wanna be alone tonight."

"Sure," said Dean.

He swung his legs off the couch and rose, following her into the bedroom. It was a very girly room, the colours all soft pastels, and a row of teddy bears on a shelf. Dean hated teddy bears, but he figured he could make do.

Lisa pulled back the sheets and climbed in.

Awkward and uncertain, Dean joined her. She turned on her side, her back to him, and hugged the sheets close. Tentatively, Dean put an arm around her, and she snuggled backwards until their bodies were pressed together.

Surprisingly, Dean's thoughts didn't stray to sex.

She was just a girl… and she was frightened.

Tightening his grip, he buried his face in the curls of her hair, relishing the cool scent of her shampoo.

There, with Lisa curled up against him, Dean fell asleep.

And for the first time in a long time, he slept… without dreams.

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	6. Waking Up To

Waking Up To…

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Dean woke to the smell of fresh coffee.

It was a pleasant way to pulled from the bliss of sleep, and Dean found it curiously unsettling. Coffee was a staple in the Winchester 'household', but it was usually a three-way war between John, Dean and Sam over who could outlast the other two – forcing the one with the most killer cravings to give up and make a pot.

Lisa's bed was also unlike any Dean could remember sleeping in.

It was soft, moulding to the contours of his body, and her pillow smelled like her shampoo. So he just lay there for a minute, eyes still closed, relishing a strange feeling…

Eventually, Dean realised what that feeling was.

It was peace.

Doubly strange, because the night before he'd been viciously attacked by a demon.

He should have woken up a mass of aches and bruises, but Dean felt as comfortable as he ever had in his life.

But the sunlight filtering through the window told him that the morning was already well advanced, and Dean knew he had to get going. There was a lot to do, and not much time to do it.

He rolled out of bed, and padded into the kitchen.

Lisa was at the counter, stirring two large cups of coffee, wearing the clothes she'd slept in.

Just the way she stood stirred something in Dean.

Head slightly bowed, a lock of hair drifting across her cheek… one foot tucked in around the ankle of her standing leg….

He was suddenly hit with an image of such power it almost took his breath away.

_This could be something, _he thought, _I could wake up to see her standing like this every morning. _

The thought was terrifying. Not least of all because he didn't know anything about her. They'd known each other for a matter of hours… definitely not long enough to start thinking about situations that stretched to _every _morning.

Dean cleared his throat and she turned her head, offering him a soft smile that almost dazzled him.

"Made you a cup," she said, sliding it across the counter.

"Thanks," said Dean.

They just stood there for a couple of minutes, sipping their coffee and not saying anything. But unlike the night before, the silence wasn't filled with difficult questions and awful tension. It was… easy.

"I gotta take off," said Dean, at last.

"Oh," said Lisa, "You're leaving town?"

"No," Dean shook his head, "That… thing... might still be here. I gotta find it."

"How?" asked Lisa, "You buried him."

"I buried the body it was using," Dean explained, "It'll find another one."

"So, it could be anybody?" she asked, and he nodded, "Then… how will you know who it is?"

"I won't," said Dean, "There are ways to check, but I don't have that kind of time. So, I have to figure out what it wants."

"What do you mean?"

"Most demons are just out to cause chaos," said Dean, "They love suffering and pain, but this demon… he's different. From what I could tell from my dad's investigations, this thing always has some kind of plan. It's working towards an endgame. If I can figure out what that is, maybe I can find it. And stop it."

"Isn't that dangerous?" she asked.

"I guess," said Dean.

"Then why do it? Why go after it? I understand fighting if it comes after you, but… why go looking for something that can kill you?"

"I dunno," Dean shrugged, "I'm stupid that way?"

"I'm serious, Dean."

Dean frowned. She was serious. The tension was creeping back into her frame.

"That thing can kill you…" she whispered.

"I don't have a choice," said Dean.

"Bull! You always have a choice."

"No," he shook his head, "I don't. You don't… you don't know what this thing did to my family."

"Then tell me."

Dean hesitated. Lisa took a couple of steps toward him, then reached out for his hand.

"You can trust me," she said.

Dean sighed.

"I think this demon… killed my mom."

Lisa didn't respond for a while, save to give his hand a little squeeze. Dean was grateful for the comfort.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"The omens," he answered, "I recognise them. That's how my dad tracks demons. The electrical storms, the fires… and something else…"

Dean broke off again, as his mind floated back to a night he would rather not revisit.

"The night my mom died," he said, "It set our house on fire. I was out on the front lawn, holding my brother. And I saw a man, in the shadows… under this tree in our yard. It was just a glimpse… hardly more than a second, but… I could've sworn I saw his eyes. They were yellow."

"And the demon last night?"

Dean nodded, "Same thing. I never even told my dad that," he admitted, "I always thought I was imagining things. But it's the same demon. I know it. And I gotta find it."

"Then I'll come with you," she said, draining her cup and turning away towards the sink.

Dean was startled, and didn't even react for a few seconds. She was already on her way back to the bedroom when his brain clicked in.

"Wait! What? No you're not!"

"Yes, I am," she said.

She didn't slow down. Dean heard the bedroom door close behind her.

"Lisa!"

Uncaring, Dean shoved open the door and rushed inside.

Lisa already had her shirt off, and was standing there in nothing but a pair of shorts.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded.

"You're not coming with me," said Dean.

"Get out!"

"You're not coming with me!" he said, again.

Lisa held the shirt in her hand, pressing it against her chest to cover herself. Then she stalked towards him.

"You can't do this alone," she insisted.

"It's not safe," said Dean, "You could get hurt."

"I could get hurt whether I'm with you or not," she pointed out, "It saw me. I'm the one who shot it. What if it comes back and you're not here?"

"I… then, we'll just… er…"

"Exactly," said Lisa, "I figure the safest place to be is with you."

Dean stared at her. Slowly, he shook his head.

_Yeah, she's definitely crazy,_ he decided.

"Now, can you excuse me, please?" she asked, "I'd like to get dressed.

"Oh, uh… sure…"

Dean backed out of the room, wondering how on earth he'd managed to lose that argument so quickly.

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	7. On The Job

On The Job

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Dean pulled up outside the Aniston Motel and got out. After a second, Lisa joined him.

"What are we doing here?" she asked.

"Just checking something," said Dean.

He led the way into the cramped office that served as the reception. A tall, skinny guy with glasses was manning the counter. He put down his _Golf Digest_ magazine as they approached.

"Can I help you?" asked the beanpole.

"Yeah, have you got any messages for Jimmy Page?" asked Dean.

Lisa shot him a puzzled look, but Dean just kept a firm smile in place as the guy started scrummaging around on the desk. He opened up a small notebook, and quickly scanned it.

"No, sorry Mr. Page," he said.

"That's okay," said Dean, "Thank you."

He turned around and headed back out into the lot, Lisa trailing behind him.

"What was that about?" she asked, once they were back in the car.

"I was checking if my dad got the message I left him last night," said Dean.

"Were you staying at that motel?" she asked, "Under a fake name? A name I noticed was the guitarist for Led Zeppelin."

"You noticed that?" Dean grinned, "That's cool."

"Well, did you stay there?" she asked.

"No," said Dean, "But if he wanted to get hold of me, that's where he'd leave a message. I checked your phone book, and that's the first motel listed for Cicero. The name's a standing thing for me whenever we're separated."

"You live a strange life, don't you?"

Dean chuckled.

Following Lisa's directions, Dean found his way back to the centre of town. He parked outside a small diner, called Pop's. Lisa went to get them a table, while Dean found a street vendor and bought a copy of every newspaper he carried. He wanted local papers, dealing with Cicero, or Indiana as a whole.

Dean ordered coffee, a stack of pancakes, and a platter of bacon and eggs. Lisa ordered the same.

"Wow," said Dean, "You pack it away. How do you keep your figure?"

Lisa shrugged, "I'm a yoga instructor."

"You're a… what?" Dean spluttered, "A yoga instructor. That must mean you're, er… I mean… You must be really… fit." he finished, lamely.

Lisa laughed, "I guess," she said, "Bendy too."

Dean almost choked, and tried to cover by spreading out the papers.

"What are we looking for?" she asked.

"Anything that sounds strange," said Dean, "Disappearances, weird deaths, strange fires…"

Lisa nodded, and they started combing through the stories. The waitress brought their order and they ate as they read.

"So, your dad," said Lisa, chewing on a chunk of pancake, "Where is he?"

"He and my brother are in Orlando," said Dean, "Clearing up a problem with a poltergeist."

"Like… the one in the movie?"

"Only nastier," said Dean.

"Is it dangerous?"

"All our jobs can be dangerous," he admitted, "But my dad, he… he's the best. No low-level poltergeist's gonna take him out, no matter how much noise it makes."

Lisa smiled. Dean caught the smile, and frowned.

"What?" he asked.

"It's nothing," she said, "Just… the way you talk about your dad. Like you actually look up to him."

"I do," said Dean.

"It's rare," said Lisa, "Especially these days."

"Well, what about you?" he asked, "What about your dad?"

"I'm an orphan," Lisa admitted, "My mom and dad, they… they died when I was little. Car accident. I moved to Cicero to live with my grandma. She passed away a coupla years ago."

"I'm sorry," said Dean.

"That's okay."

"Where'd you live before?"

"Kansas."

Dean was taken aback, "What part of Kansas."

"A small town," said Lisa, "You've probably never heard of it. Lawrence."

Dean stared, feeling a curious unease starting to build inside him.

_She was from Lawrence? What were the chances? _

Lisa didn't notice his behaviour, because she was excitedly folding over one of the newspapers, pointing to a story below the fold.

"Check this out," she said, "I think I got something."

Dean shook off the feeling, and grabbed the paper. The headline red: _'Local famer fined and warned for spate of crank calls.'_

"Apparently, this guy's made seven calls to 911 in the space of a week," Lisa explained, "He claims there's someone stalking his property – someone who's after him and his family. But everytime the police check it out there's no trace."

Dean nodded, "Says here he made the last call after it had rained. He saw a man outside the window. But the police found no footprints."

"Could that be something?" she asked.

"It's not much," said Dean, "But it's worth checking out."

Lisa beamed, looking pleased with herself.

"So, we just go over and talk to the guy?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that," said Dean, "People don't usually open up to strangers who just show up on their doorstep."

"Then… how do we do it?"

"Well, first…" said Dean, "You need a change of clothes…"

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"I look ridiculous!" Lisa moaned, as they stalked up the cracked gravel path leading to the front door of the farmhouse.

"Come on, you look great," Dean teased.

She did look great, in his opinion. She was wearing a black, pencil skirt suit, with a white shirt, opened at the collar. Adding to the look, she'd done up her hair, giving her a fiercer expression.

_Like a really strict librarian,_ Dean thought, unable to stop grinning.

Dean had used one of his numerous fake credit cards to buy them both official-looking clothes. Lisa hadn't asked any questions, even after noting that the name on the card was: _Gerald Springer_.

"Nobody's going to believe I'm a cop," said Lisa.

"Just act like you own the world, and you're doing them a favour even talking to them," Dean advised, "It'll work."

Lisa grunted, and followed him up the steps to the door. Dean knocked, then stepped back and waited.

They heard footsteps on the other side. The handle turned and the door opened a crack. Dean expected someone to peer out, but instead, he found himself staring at the business end of a shotgun.

"What do you want?" barked a gruff voice.

Dean backed away, raising his hands.

"Take it easy, sir," he said, in what he hoped was a soothing manner, "We're with the State Police."

Now Dean caught sight of a middle-aged man with a large beard that was streaked with grey, peeking out from above the barrel of the shotgun.

"Badges!" demanded the man.

Dean slowly reached into his inside pocket, noting that Lisa was copying his careful movements.

_Good girl_, he thought.

Dean had considered coming as the FBI. The problem with that was FBI badges came with photo ID's. Not a problem for Dean, but they didn't have time to make one for Lisa. The State Police only had a badge, and Dean had a trunk load full of those.

They flipped open their leather folders, holding the badges up to eye-level.

The man took his time studying them, then the shotgun disappeared. The door opened fully, and the farmer stood framed in the doorway.

He was large man, with big hands, obviously used to hard work. He carried himself with the confidence of a fighter, but his eyes betrayed him. They shot everywhere, never pausing for more than a couple of seconds on any one thing. The man was clearly spooked.

"Mr. Clayton?" said Dean, "John Clayton?"

"Yeah," the man nodded, "What are you doing here? The police said they wouldn't come round anymore."

"Yes, sir, we know," said Dean, "But the Sheriff's Department has to lodge any complaints with the State Police. We decided to come and speak to you ourselves before ruling on the matter."

"Please, Mr. Clayton," said Lisa, "We'll only take a few minutes of your time."

Her tone was calm, measured and comforting, and Dean saw Clayton slowly relax. He stepped back, opening the door further, and gestured with the shotgun for them to step inside. Dean kept his eyes on the gun and cocked an eyebrow. Clayton got the message, and set it down against the wall beside the door.

Dean let Lisa go in first, then followed.

"Sorry about that," said Clayton, "I just been… well, I got a family, you see, and I don't care what that fool Sheriff says, there's someone watching us. I gotta protect my kids."

'We understand, sir," said Dean, "Could you explain what happened?"

Clayton nodded, and led the way into the living room. The house was scrupulously neat, and obviously well cared for. The furniture wasn't expensive, but Dean noted a few pieces that were obviously carved by hand, probably by Clayton himself.

Dean and Lisa took a seat, side by side on the couch. Clayton was about to sit down on the armchair facing them, when he appeared to remember himself.

"I'm sorry," he said, "Can I get you folks something to drink?"

"Just a water, please," said Dean.

"The same," said Lisa.

Clayton disappeared into the kitchen, and Dean took the time to look around. There were a number of photographs on the side table, as well the mantle along the wall. All family shots. Clayton's wife was small, but pretty, with fluffy blonde hair. His two kids, a boy and a girl roughly eight and ten years old, had their mother's hair and features, but the boy was big – like his dad.

"Is your family not home?" Dean called.

Clayton came back in, carrying two glasses of ice water, which he handed to Dean and Lisa.

"They're upstairs," Clayton explained, "I sent 'em up as soon as I heard your car coming down the drive. I hope you don't mind, it's just… better to be safe, you know?"

"Mr. Clayton," Lisa began, "Could you tell us what happened? What's got you so nervous?"

"Well, uh…" Clayton sat down, wringing his hands. He appeared to have calmed down a little, but not completely, "I guess it started about… ten days ago, when one of my cows died."

"Your cow?" said Dean.

"Yeah, I got a herd," said Clayton, "I went out one morning and found one of them dead. Her belly was split wide open. She was damn near cut in half, actually."

"What do you think could have done it?" asked Dean.

"I got no idea," said Clayton, "An animal can split if it dies, and stays out in the sun too long. The gasses build up, you see? But that'll take at least a couple of days. This happened overnight."

"And… that was when you first suspected something?" asked Lisa.

Clayton nodded.

"That night… I saw him," said Clayton.

"The man you reported?" said Dean.

"It was… weird," said Clayton, "He'd just… be there one second and gone the next. It kept happening… every night for a week. We'd be sitting here, watching TV, and I'd look up and… there he was. He was always… awfully still. Like he had no plans to go anywhere."

Clayton broke off, like he was picturing the scenes again. Dean and Lisa waited, patiently, for him to continue:

"Anyway, I saw him again the next night," said Clayton, "I was getting ready for bed and I looked out the window. He was standing in the yard looking up at me. It was a full moon, and I saw him clear as anything. That's when I called the police."

"What can you tell us about him?" asked Dean.

"He was… tall. Not too chubby, or anything. Hair going kinda thin on top. He looked… ordinary."

"Except for…" Dean prompted.

"Except for nothing," said Clayton.

"So there wasn't anything weird about him?" said Dean, "Like his eyes, maybe?"

"Never really saw his eyes," said Clayton, "At least, nothing strange about them."

"Mr. Clayton, can you think of any reason why this man might be after you?" asked Lisa.

"No," said Clayton, "I've been on this land close on twenty years. I get along with my neighbours. I don't frequent the bars, or anything. Hell, last time I got into a fight was in high school."

"What about your family?" asked Lisa, "Your wife, maybe?"

Clayton blinked, and looked away. Only for a second. When he looked at them again, he was shaking his head.

"Maggie's the sweetest woman," he said, "She wouldn't hurt anybody, and nobody would want to hurt her."

"How long have you been married?" she asked.

Dean noticed that Lisa had scooted forward in her seat, like she was taking over the interview. Dean didn't mind. Judging by his body language, Clayton seemed more comfortable talking to her anyway.

"Five years," said Clayton, "Five years next month, actually."

"But… your kids…" said Lisa, nodding at the photo on the table, "They look older than five."

"They're my kids, not Maggie's," said Clayton, "She's my second wife. Maggie and I have a daughter, though. Elizabeth Anne. Born April second."

"Congratulations," said Lisa.

"If you don't mind me asking, sir," said Dean, "What happened to your first wife? Divorce?"

"She passed on," said Clayton, "Ten years ago."

"I'm so sorry."

Clayton shrugged, "If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about Tina. I try not to. Ever since I met Maggie anyway."

"I understand," said Dean, "Would it be possible for us to talk to Maggie?"

Instantly, Clayton's demeanour changed again. He tensed up like a coiled spring, and shot to his feet.

"I'd rather you didn't," said Clayton, "They've all been going through a tough time, and talking to the police… She's still breastfeeding, and I don't want her to stress more than she has to."

"That's okay," said Dean, standing himself, "I think that's all our questions for now. If we need to know more, we'll be in touch."

Lisa rose as well, and together they made their way to the door.

"What do I do if I see him again?" asked Clayton, "The Sheriff said if I called 911, they'd put me in jail."

"Have you got a pen?" asked Lisa,.

Clayton nodded, and lifted a small pad and pen off the stand by the phone. Lisa scribbled down her home number.

"You can get hold of us here," she said.

"Thank you, Miss," said Clayton, "I really do appreciate this."

Lisa smiled.

"Keep that gun loaded," said Dean.

Clayton let them out, and they hustled their way back to the car.

"Poor man," said Lisa, climbing into the passenger seat, "He's so afraid. All he wants to do is protect his family,"

"Yeah," said Dean, gunning the engine, "He's a good guy. Too bad he's a total liar."

.

.

.


	8. Buried Answers

Buried Answers

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.

.

Lisa swivelled in her seat, so she faced Dean as he drove.

"What do you mean he's a liar? You don't believe the demon's after him?"

"Oh no, that part I believe," said Dean, "I just don't think it was as much of a surprise as he let on."

"Why?"

"A few things…" said Dean, "His first two kids aren't there."

"What are you talking about?"

"You saw that house. He said he sent the wife and kids upstairs when we pulled up. But I've never seen a house with kids that age that looked that neat."

"That's not much to go on," said Lisa.

"There's more," said Dean, "The timing of his first wife's death… the demon showing up now… I dunno, it's just… it's all starting to sound just a little bit familiar."

"What are you talking about?"

"Why didn't he want us to speak to his wife? We're cops. He should trust us. I'm not buying that story about putting her under stress. Shouldn't the fact that the police are involved relieve stress?"

"We're not the police," Lisa pointed out.

"Yeah, but he doesn't know that!"

Dean roared down the road leading back to the centre of town. They shot past Pop's diner again, and Dean made a left turn, heading for a big, Greco-styled building across from the small park that formed the town square.

"Where are we going?" asked Lisa.

"Town hall," said Dean, "There's some things I need to check."

.

.

.

Half an hour later, Dean had what he wanted. His State Police badge was sufficient to convince the clerk working the registrar's desk to cough up the info he needed. Lisa was waiting for him at a desk in the back of the dusty office and Dean spread the documents he'd acquired in front of her.

"Okay, what am I looking at?" asked Lisa.

"Here," said Dean, "The death certificate for Tina Clayton."

"Okay… that just confirms what he told us."

"Right," said Dean, "But there's one thing missing, if we're gonna believe his story."

"What's that?"

"There's no marriage license for John and Margaret Clayton," said Dean, "Maggie is short for Margaret, right?"

"Yeah," said Lisa, "So… he's not married?"

"No, he is," said Dean.

"You're confusing me," said Lisa.

Dean grinned, "And here…" he pulled another sheet closer, "Birth certificate for Elizabeth Anne Clayton. Look at the date."

Lisa peered at the form, "13th of April?"

"And what date did he give?"

"The second."

"Exactly."

"You keep saying stuff like that!" said Lisa, growing more than a little annoyed, "But what does this all mean?"

"Not much right now," said Dean, "It's just… a hunch I have, okay? You're gonna have to trust me."

"I do trust you," said Lisa, "But I'd trust you even more if you told me what the hell was going on."

"Remember the pictures in his living room?"

"Yeah," said Lisa, "They were… normal. Family portraits."

"All the regular photos regular families take, right? Shots of them on vacation… Mom, dad and the kids?"

"So?"

"So, what did you notice about them?"

"Nothing. Like I said… they were normal."

"How old would you say the daughter was? She was the youngest, so…?"

"I dunno… eight, nine?" said Lisa.

"But Tina Clayton died ten years ago. Never heard of a dead woman having a kid."

Lisa frowned. She picked up the death certificate, studying the date. Then she picked up the birth certificates of all three of the Clayton kids.

There wasn't any doubt. All three of them had been born in the last ten years.

"Why would he lie about that?" asked Lisa.

"I have an idea," said Dean, "But there's only one way to find out."

"How?"

"You're not gonna like it."

.

.

.

"You were right," said Lisa, "I don't like this. In fact, I hate this! This is sick!"

"Part of the job," said Dean, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

Lisa was edgy. She kept looking around, hoping nobody would spot them. The sun had set, and the clouds were gathering for another storm. That obscured the moon, at least, cloaking them in darkness.

"Could you stop moving the flashlight, please?" said Dean.

"Sorry."

Lisa bent down, aiming the beam of light into the hole. Dean was standing in the churned out remains of a grave. Only his head was above ground level. Lisa glanced at the headstone, and shivered.

"_Tina Clayton…_

_Beloved Wife…"_

"If you're in there, forgive us…" Lisa muttered.

She heard the loud thunk of metal hitting wood, and a second later, Dean's voice from the recesses of the pit.

"Got it!"

Lisa leaned over further, so she was staring straight down. Dean scraped the edge of the shovel's blade on the surface of the casket, clearing it of sand.

"Okay, here goes," he said, leaning the shovel against the side of the hole.

He bent down, and got a good grip on the edge of the lid.

"I don't think we should do this…" said Lisa.

"Too late now," said Dean, "I've been digging for an hour. "

He lifted his head and peered up at her, squinting in the light of the torch.

"You know, you could have helped with that," he said.

"I draw the line at grave desecration," she replied.

"You said you wanted to help!"

"But Dean…" she whined, putting on a little girl voice, "I'm just a frail woman. You're the big strapping man."

Dean pulled a face, and tightened his grip on the lid. Bracing himself, he heaved backwards, and the lid swung open with a creak.

"Damn..." Lisa muttered, shining the light into the casket's interior. It was lined with soft, white velvet… and it was empty.

"Man," said Dean, "I was really hoping I was wrong about this."

"So, she didn't die?"

"Oh, she died alright," said Dean, planting his hands on the top of the hole and levering himself back out, "I just think John made a deal. He brought her back."

"How is that even possible?"

"There are legends about these kinds of things," said Dean, "Demons and spirits that can raise the dead."

"So… she's like… a zombie?"

"I don't think so," said Dean, "A zombie wouldn't be able to have kids. She's the same woman she was… just with… a little more time."

"That's so sad."

"No, the sad part is… her time's running out."

"Just like yours."

Dean and Lisa swung round at the sound of the voice. A man had managed to sneak up on them. He was old, and frail, wearing an overall, with _Cicero Parks Service_ stencilled over the breast pocket.

The old man smiled at them, and his eyes flashed yellow.

"You son of a–"

Dean tried to surge to his feet, but a flick of the man's hand sent him spinning backwards, back into the hole. He landed face down, with his head inside the open lid of the casket. His sternum hit the edge, punching all the air from his lungs.

"Dean!"

Lisa managed to get to her feet, but the man waved his hand, almost contemptuously, and she was hurled fifteen feet, until she cracked her head on a tombstone. Stars exploded behind her eyes, and the world went black.

The man stood over the open grave and raised his arms. Then, like an orchestra conductor, he swooped them back down, and the mounds of dirt on either side of the hole rushed forward, pouring in on top of Dean.

It took mere seconds for the full six-foot gouge to be filled in, until it looked like a normal, freshly turned grave – with Dean buried inside.

Chuckling to himself, the Yellow-Eyed Demon turned to the crumpled body of Lisa.

She was curled up, moaning with pain.

Just the way he wanted her.

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	9. Graveside Prayer

Graveside Prayer

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"_Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; __  
__All earth was but one thought and that was death…"_

_._

_Lord Byron_

_**.**_

_**.**_

All was darkness.

A darkness so profound, so crushing… that Dean felt like it was swallowing him whole. Some gigantic beast that craved, not just his body, but his soul.

The open casket was the only reason he was alive.

He'd fallen face first into the space where the corpse's head would be, and as the earth closed around him it filled the sides, but left a tiny gap right in front of his face.

A tiny aperture, filled with air.

Air that was quickly running out.

Despite the pain, despite the panic, Dean's thoughts were remarkably clear.

He knew how trapped he was.

If he moved, tried to struggle through the mountain of dirt crushing down on him, that gap would disappear and he'd suffocate.

But if he just lay there, unmoving, he'd suck the available oxygen out in minutes.

The choice was no choice at all, really.

A quick death, or a slow one…

There was no in-between.

Even so… even though he was literally staring death in the face, he wasn't thinking of himself.

Lisa was out there, face to face with the demon, and he couldn't help her.

She was all alone…

.

.

.

"Lisa… Lisa…"

The voice didn't fit the face. It was deep, filled to bursting with a resonance that shook Lisa to her very bones.

The demon crouched down in front of her – yellow eyes glinting in the lined and leathered face.

Lisa tried to turn her head away, to escape the sulphur stink of the demon's breath, and felt a stabbing pain shoot down her spine.

She moaned. The demon chuckled.

"Nice to see you again, my dear…" he said, "It's been far, far too long. Seventeen years. I have to say… good job growing up."

He chuckled again, and the sound was laced with menace.

Lisa felt a hot rush of blood pouring down the back of her neck. She must have split her head open when she made contact with the tombstone. She tried to plant her hands and lift herself up, but the effort made her arms tremble, and her stomach twist with bile.

"Here, let me help you…" said the demon.

His hand shot out, clamping around her throat. Lisa gasped as her airway was closed off, and the vice-like grip squeezed in.

The demon rose, effortlessly, lifting her as easily as a rag doll.

She was hoisted up, until only the tips of her toes scrabbled desperately against the ground. The demon pulled her closer, and that smell invaded her again.

Hellfire, and brimstone… that's what it smelled like.

"So, you found your way back to the Winchester boy, did you?" the demon hissed, "I thought you might. When God carves his little glyphs into your hearts, you humans always find a way. It's pathetic, really… the games he plays with you."

Lisa gagged, struggling for breath, but the demon's grip never lessened.

"Soulmates?" he said, "It's just another form of torture. You felt it, didn't you? All these years when you were away from him… That emptiness inside. We demons hurt you, sure… but we can't reach that level of vindictiveness. That ache you feel because you're separated from the one God chose for you…"

Her eyes were misting up, and her head felt like it was being pulled apart from the inside. Lack of blood and oxygen were dulling her thoughts.

She had no idea what he was talking about, and she didn't care.

She had only one chance.

She reached for her jacket pocket, but her arm felt like it was moving through water as thick as gravy. Sharp jabs of pain started shooting up the length of her arm and down her back with every inch of movement gained. But she kept at it, burying her hand in the pocket.

The demon didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on hers, and he licked his lips. He wanted to see it. Witness that moment when the life inside her was snuffed out.

"This will make up for it," he whispered, "With your parents it was too quick… I didn't get to see them gasping for breath, and choking on their own blood and juice. But this… this is sweet…"

Lisa's eyes flared and she bared her teeth. Using the last of the air in her lungs, she hissed, then spat in his face.

The demon smiled again.

With a strangled grunt of pain, Lisa wrenched her arm out of her pocket, clutching at the object in her hand with a death grip. She shoved it in the demons mouth, and squeezed.

It was a juice bottle, the kind that usually comes filled with the vitaminy-goodness of an energy drink.

Only this one wasn't filled with that.

A jet of holy water squeezed from the tiny tip, and gushed down the demons throat.

Smoke billowed out his mouth and nostrils, and he gagged, releasing his grip.

Lisa hit the ground, and her legs buckled, but she refused to fall. Even though it felt like she had a bear riding on her back, she stayed on her feet and lunged for the demon, who was screaming now.

She aimed the bottle like a gun and squeezed again. Another burst of water hit the demon full in the face and his skin started to bubble.

He screamed again – the sound of thousand strangled cats.

"Take that, you sonofabitch!"

She soaked his clothes, his hair, his skin, and acrid smoke poured off him in waves.

Then he threw his head back, opened his mouth, and the demon smoke flushed out of him in a desperate attempt to escape.

Lisa watched as it shot up into the sky and moulded with the gathering clouds.

The groundskeeper's body hit the earth and lay still.

.

.

.

Dean was starting to panic. He could feel the air being squeezed out of his lungs, and he had to resist the urge to gasp, and suck in more.

This was no way to go.

He couldn't just lay there and die.

Not without trying to fight.

_The hell with it!_

Dean pulled in one last, deep lungful of air, and more than a few grains of salty dirt, then clamped his mouth shut and tried to turn.

A cascade of dirt hit his face and he shut his eyes, trying to free his hands.

He clawed at the earth above him with growing desperation, just trying to raise his torso, find that half a foot of space that he could squeeze into as the dirt rained into the casket below.

He was moving, gaining inch by inch, but it wasn't enough.

His lungs were on fire, and it felt like his skull would shatter from the pressure.

He wasn't going to make it.

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.

.

Lisa collapsed twice as she dragged herself across the ground to Tina Clayton's grave.

The shovel had been buried in the hole with Dean, and Lisa had to no choice but to start scratching at the earth with her bare hands. She aimed for where Dean's head would be and ripped large globs of dirt away, flinging it blindly as she tried to reach him.

She was moving without thought – ignoring the aches and weariness that had seized the muscles in her back and turned her arms to lead.

She was in excellent shape – years of training and exercise had given her reserves of strength that she called on now.

A bloodied, mud-splattered mole, she ground her way headfirst into the hole, moving with increasing fury.

"Dean… Dean… Dean…"

She didn't even know she was mumbling. Didn't care when her mouth filled with dirt. She just spat it out and kept on.

A foot… two… three…

How long had he been down there? Three minutes? Four?

How long could a person go without air?

In the back of her mind, Lisa started praying. There were no words to this prayer… only a rush of emotions so strong it overwhelmed the physical pain she felt.

_Don't let him die… Please, God, don't let him die…_

She ripped away another foot of earth, and suddenly she saw movement. A hand, tearing at the dirt from the other side.

"Dean!"

The hole she'd made was only about half a foot in diameter, but it was enough.

She grabbed his hand, and pulled. Dean's other hand forced it's way out into the air, followed by his head.

He opened his mouth, and let a dribble of sand rush out before he yawned in a giant lungful of fresh oxygen.

He was gasping, panting, but now he managed to dig his fingers into the ground and drag himself clear. Lisa grabbed the collar of his jacket, and strained to lift him out herself.

Then, almost like a cork popping free, Dean cleared the last of the rubble and fell on top of her.

They couldn't move. Lisa didn't have the strength to push him away, and Dean couldn't find it in him to budge.

Their chests rose and fell in unison as both relished the sweet taste of breath.

Lisa shuddered.

Feeling the movement, Dean managed to lever himself up onto his elbows, so he was looking down on her.

She stared into his eyes, two bright pools in his grime-covered face. She hadn't dared believe that she would see them again.

"What took you so long?" said Dean.

Lisa laughed. The pain jarred, and the laugh turned into a groan.

Then she burst into tears.

.

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	10. Deal Come Due

Deal Come Due

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"We're wasting time!"

"Would you hold still for a second?"

"No, we're wasting time! That demon's still out there! He could go after that family!"

"Yeah, he might. But right now, you're my priority."

"Dean, I'm serious."

Dean sighed. He wondered if, and when, he would ever win an argument with this woman.

He'd already managed to stop the bleeding from the cut in her scalp, and bandaged it with a thin strip of gauze, but he was worried that she might have a concussion. Which had prompted him to suggest a trip to the hospital – something Lisa had immediately refused.

"They need our help," she said, "They don't know how to fight this thing. You told me that the only thing Clayton's gun is going to do is piss the demon off."

Dean chuckled. Lisa frowned at him.

"What's so funny?" she demanded.

"Nothing," said Dean, "It's just... you sound like a Hunter."

"Good thing one of us does," said Lisa, "Now are we going or not?"

"Alright, alright!"

Dean scooted around to the driver's door and got in. He fired up the engine.

"But if you pass out, I'm not lifting a finger," he warned.

"Just drive," said Lisa.

Dean nodded, clicked the car into gear and took off. They hit the road running out of town, towards the Clayton farmhouse. Dean kept glancing over at Lisa. She clicked her tongue at him.

"I'm fine," she insisted.

"I know," said Dean, "I just… I wanted to say thanks. I wouldn't have been able to dig myself out of there without your help. You, er… you saved my life."

"Don't worry about it," said Lisa.

"What happened?" asked Dean, "How did you get rid of him?"

"The holy water in the juice bottle. And you said it wouldn't work."

"I never said that."

"You said it was the most ridiculous idea you'd ever heard!"

"Yeah, well… it was…" Dean spluttered, "At the time."

Lisa smiled.

"Did he say anything?" asked Dean, "Before you vaporised him."

Lisa didn't answer, and Dean threw a glance her way. She was staring straight ahead – her jaw was clenched, and she appeared to be running the encounter over in her head.

"He said… some things…" said Lisa, eventually, "About you, and me… and my parents."

"Your parents?"

"I think he killed them."

"What?"

"That's what he said."

Now Dean went quiet.

The coincidences were starting to pile up. So much so that he couldn't think of them as coincidences anymore.

"How old were you when they died?" asked Dean, "You said you were little, so…?"

"I was three," said Lisa.

"And this was in…?"

"1983."

"November, 1983?"

"Yeah. How did you know?"

Dean gripped the wheel even harder. Lisa saw the tension racking up in his body.

"What?" she asked, "Do you know something about this?"

"You said you were from Lawrence," said Dean, "Well… I'm from Lawrence too. That's where my mom died. November 1983."

"You think they're connected?"

"Yeah," said Dean, "I just don't know how… or why."

"So that's what he meant…" she whispered.

"What?"

Dean turned to look at her again. She was biting at her bottom lip, deep in thought.

"I don't really understand it," she said, "But… the demon said I was… marked for you. That I felt it while we were separated all these years."

"Felt what?"

"An emptiness."

"And have you?"

"God, Dean, how am I supposed to know? We just met! Didn't we?"

"That's what I thought," said Dean, "But I can't remember much from back then. I was four years old when we took off."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," said Lisa, "It's making my head hurt."

"Okay," said Dean, as gently as possible, "We're here anyway."

Dean spun the wheel, and banked up onto the curb and into the Clayton's driveway. He pulled up right next to the steps and they got out.

Dean was the first to the door, and he banged on it, calling out: "Mr Clayton! Mr Clayton, open up!"

Seconds later, he heard someone approaching and stepped back, gripping the bottle of holy water in his jacket pocket. But it was John Clayton who opened the door.

"Officers?" he said, obviously taken aback by their appearance, "What are you doing here? What happened?"

"We need to talk to you," said Dean, stepping forward and shoving his way into the house, "And your wife. Where is she?"

"John?"

Dean turned and glanced up the stairs. There was the woman from the photographs. Blonde, pretty, and by all appearances, completely healthy.

"Tina Clayton?" said Dean.

"That's my wife, Maggie," said Clayton, trying to step between Dean and his wife, "Tina died. I told you that."

"Yeah, I know what you told us," said Dean, "And I also know it was a lie."

"Dean, calm down," said Lisa, "Mr. Clayton… we know. Everything."

By this time, Clayton's wife had come down the stairs. She stood behind her husband, and touched his arm.

"How did you find out?" she asked.

"Maggie, no!"

John looked panicked, and swung round, hoping to appeal to his wife, but her gaze was fixed on Dean and Lisa – steady, and unafraid.

Dean gestured at his grime-covered clothes, "We kinda… dug up your grave," he said.

"You did what?" John looked furious, almost ready to go for the shotgun again.

Lisa put a hand to his chest, stopping him.

"It was the only way we could be sure," she said, "The only way we could help you."

"Help us with what?"

"We think you know," said Dean, "Now… tell us about the day your wife died."

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.

.

"You hear people say things, like… 'It was the worst day of my life', but they don't really know what they're talking about," said John.

They'd moved into the living room, and Dean and Lisa sat in the same place they had on their previous visit. Only this time, Tina Clayton was perched on the arm of her husband's chair. They were always touching, and Lisa suspected John would have pulled her onto his lap if he could.

"The day Tina died… I died," he said, "Sounds melodramatic, and maybe it is, but that's how I felt. We'd been married three years when she got sick. The doctors did everything they could, but I sat in that hospital room day after day, just…. watching her waste away. Afterward, all I could think about was what could have been…"

He faltered a little, and she rubbed his arm. He glanced up at her, seeming to draw strength from her mere presence.

"We planned a life together, and it all just… went away," said John, "No kids, no future… no nothing."

"What happened?" asked Dean.

"I started drinking," said John, "A lot. There's this bar outside town… Johnson's… I went there 'most every night. And I was a lousy drunk. Crying in front of everybody, but they were nice about it. 'Specially this one woman…"

"Who was she?" asked Lisa.

"She never gave me her name. But she seemed to… understand, you know? She just… listened. I told her about Tina. About what happened. About… how I wished I could bring her back."

"And let me guess…" said Dean, "One day, she told you she could make it happen."

"I thought she was joking," said John, "I mean… that's crazy right? Anyway, I was pretty drunk at the time, so I said hell, if she could do it…"

John sighed, and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He looked gaunt, and tired.

"What did she want in return?" asked Dean.

"Nothing. Least… nothing specific. She said she'd be back in ten years… that she'd collect then. When I got home… Tina was here. Alive. Like it never… I was just so happy."

"I don't even remember it," said Tina, "I remember the hospital, and then I woke up on the couch. John didn't want to tell me what happened at first, but… I got it out of him."

"What was done, was done," said John, "And we got on with our lives. Most days I wouldn't even think about the woman in the bar… about what she said, until…"

"Until the stranger showed up," said Dean.

John nodded, "Their eyes were the same," he said.

"You told me there was nothing strange about his eyes," said Dean.

"What was I gonna tell you?" asked John, "That they glowed yellow? I thought you were regular cops."

"Well, we're not cops," said Dean, "Cops wouldn't know how to handle this."

"And you do?" Tina Clayton's voice was filled with sudden hope.

"First things first," said Dean, "You need to get you and your family outta here. Where are your kids?"

"They're staying with my parents," said John, "Over in the next county. Except for the baby. She still needs her mother."

"Why didn't you go with them?" asked Lisa, looking at Tina.

"I wouldn't leave John to face the thing alone," said Tina, "I know my priority should be my kids, but… he brought me back from the dead. I can't leave his side now."

"Yeah, well, you won't have to," said Dean, "You're all leaving."

"It'll find us," said John, "The woman, she told me… she told me that when she came, she could find me. Anywhere. She said I could run to the ends of the earth, and it wouldn't help."

"I know some things you don't," said Dean, "Like how to hide from demons."

"Demons?" John grabbed his wife's hand, "Is that…? Is that what she was? A demon?"

"Yes, and you made a deal with her," said Dean, "She – it – has come to collect."

"What can we do?"

"I have what we need in my car," said Dean, "Don't worry, the demon's not collecting anything. Not today. Not on my watch."

"Thank you," said Tina, "I don't know why you're helping us, but… thank you."

"Thank us if you live through this," said Dean.

.

.

.

"How are these going to help again?"

"What?"

Dean was on his back in the Clayton's garage underneath their car. John Clayton got on his knees and watched as Dean finished drawing on the undercarriage with a white-out pen.

"I said… how is this going to help?" asked John.

"They're Stygian symbols," said Dean, gripping the runner underneath the doors and pulling himself out, "A demon won't be able to track you. But you gotta drive straight to your parents' house, and then get them, and the kids, in this car. Go to a motel, preferably over the state line. Do not stop. Not for anything. When you get there…"

"I put those, um… what did you call them? Hex bags? I put them on the windowsills, and I draw salt lines on the windows and doors."

"Exactly," said Dean, "You have to get off this thing's radar, or it _will_ come after you. Your family's life depends on it."

"I won't forget," said John.

"Neither will I."

Tina appeared in the doorway, carrying her baby, all bundled up against the chill creeping in from outside. Dean heard a distant rumble of thunder. The storm wasn't far off.

"Get going," said Dean, "We don't know when the demon will be back."

"What are you going to do?" asked John.

"We'll stay here," said Dean, "Hopefully the demon will show."

"You're going to fight it?"

"I'm going to try," said Dean, "Where's Lisa?"

"Upstairs washing up," said Tina.

"Okay, drive safe," said Dean.

He watched the family pull out the driveway, and disappear down the road. He went upstairs, and found Lisa in the master bedroom. She was dressed in the clothes she was wearing that morning. Dean glanced down at the tattered remnants of his suit, and figured he'd better change too.

"They're gone," said Dean, "They should be safe."

"You're not sure?"

"I can't be sure," said Dean, "But I got those symbols from my dad's journal, and he usually knows what he's talking about."

"Do you think he's checked in yet?" asked Lisa.

"I don't know," said Dean, "And I can't afford to go check. Chances are, the demon's coming here. I want to greet him."

"I want to meet your dad," said Lisa.

"Why?"

"Because maybe he has some answers," she said, "Maybe he knows what happened to my parents."

Dean hadn't considered the possibility, but it made sense. Lawrence was a small town, and if there was a connection between Lisa's parents and his mom… then John Winchester might know about it.

"What exactly did the demon say?" asked Dean.

"He said we were soulmates," said Lisa.

"Soulmates?" Dean was surprised.

"I know," said Lisa, "There's no such thing"

"You really believe that?" asked Dean.

"Don't you?" she countered.

"I dunno…" Dean shrugged. He passed her, and flopped down on the bed, "My dad always said he and my mom were meant for each other. I think… that's why he went a little crazy after she died. Like John Clayton… he couldn't handle it. But instead of trying to bring her back, he decided to find the thing that killed her."

"I guess… these are questions we can answer later," said Lisa, sitting down beside him, "Right now, we should get ready. If the demon pitches…"

"He will," said Dean, "Sooner or later."

She turned, and stared out the window - where the first drops of rain splattered against the glass.

"It's going to be a long night..." she muttered.

.

.

.


	11. While the Storm is Raging

While the Storm is Raging

.

.

.

Dean sat at the bedroom window, watching the storm.

Except for the occasional flash of lightning, the rain only added depth to the darkness.

He kept the lights off, hoping to fool anyone on the outside into thinking that the Clayton family was up here, sound asleep.

Dean couldn't see his watch, but he guessed it was around three in the morning. Every part of him was aching, and he was immortally tired.

He turned his head, catching the dim shape of Lisa asleep on the bed. They'd agreed to take turns keeping watch. Her shift should have started two hours ago, but Dean couldn't bring himself to wake her.

Not tonight.

Not after everything she'd been through. Although Dean felt slightly guilty for even thinking that.

Like it or not, she was a Hunter now.

She'd faced down the Yellow-Eyed demon twice. She'd bled on the job. She was a part of this.

How big a part? Dean didn't know.

But he couldn't deny the well of pride he felt when he thought about it.

Alone, and hurt, she'd overcome an evil, powerful adversary, and saved his life.

Not just anyone could have done that.

It had nothing to do with the fact that she was a woman. Dean knew plenty of men would have frozen in that situation. Hesitated just long enough to get themselves killed.

Lisa hadn't.

He switched his gaze back outside, and thought about her connection to Lawrence. There was something there… a reason he had found her now – just when the demon showed up. He needed to figure out what that was.

Another flash lit up the night, but Dean saw nothing out of place.

He didn't expect to.

"Dean?"

Lisa was sitting up in bed, rubbing at her eyes.

"What time is it?" she whispered.

"No idea," said Dean.

Lisa glanced at the digital clock next to the bed. It was tilted away from Dean so he couldn't read it.

"Why didn't you wake me?" she asked.

"You needed rest," he answered.

"What if the demon came?"

"He won't be coming tonight," said Dean, "He'll come tomorrow."

"How do you know?"

"There's a pattern to these things. It's mirroring what happened to my mom… And to a woman named Liddy Walsh… a man named Edward Monroe… Also Dana Fisher, Ross McGowan…"

"Who are they?" asked Lisa.

"People the demon made deals with," said Dean, "At least, according to my dad's journal. He doesn't know that I read it. He'd lock it up when he went out on a job, but I haven't found a lock yet that I couldn't pick."

"So… why are you so sure the demon's coming tomorrow? Or… tonight, actually?"

"Tonight's the baby's six month birthday," said Dean, "That's when he showed at our place. My brother's six-month birthday. I think it has less to do with the parents, and everything to do with the kids."

"The demon's after the baby?"

"I think so."

Lisa went quiet for a while, turning this over in her head. The idea was beyond sickening.

"If you're so sure," she said, "Then you might as well come to bed."

Dean turned to face her again. She couldn't really see him in the dark, but she was sure he was smirking.

"Sounds like a proposition," he said.

"Shut up!" she countered, "You must be exhausted."

"A little…" he admitted.

"Then come to bed."

Still-cradling the shotgun, Dean stood. He crossed to the bed, every step feeling weighted and uncertain. Lisa scooted over, making room for him. Dean stopped by the side of the bed, and just looked at her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, "Get in."

"I, uh… I'm not sure I can."

"Why not?"

"Coz I don't think I can do a repeat of last night."

"What?"

"I don't think I can lie in the same bed with you again."

"Why not?" she asked, "Was the experience that horrible?"

"No," Dean shook his head, "It was the opposite. It felt… right. It felt like…"

"What?" she asked.

Dean shook his head again, unable to find the words.

"Like home?"

His head shot up, and he found her eyes, even in the gloom. Like a tracer bullet.

"Yeah…" said Dean, "Like home."

"I felt the same way too."

"Then you know why I can't do it," said Dean, "I can't lie there, and not touch you. Not hold you. Not…"

He trailed off again. Since he hit puberty – with the force of a sledgehammer – Dean had a way with girls. He had an easy, roguish charm that they responded to. Dean, for his part, courted their company. He liked the power he felt when he talked a girl into his bed. Not in a sleazy way, it just always felt like an accomplishment.

But this…

This was different.

He felt no power here.

In fact, he felt the strongest desire to just… let go.

But somehow, he knew that once he did… nothing would be the same.

Lisa sat up, and twisted until she was on her knees, facing him. She inched closer. Dean didn't back away.

She reached out a hand, laying it on his chest, her fingers spread like a starfish.

"Your heart's racing…" she whispered.

Dean closed his eyes.

He felt her take his hand, raising it up until it rested over her heart.

"Mine too…"

Dean opened his eyes.

She was so close.

He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, and she trembled when he touched her. Her breathing became ragged. She met his eyes, and he saw a longing there that absolutely terrified him. What terrified him even more, was the certainty that she was, at that moment, seeing the same longing mirrored in his.

Then, she voiced his thoughts: "I'm scared," she breathed.

"Me too," said Dean, "This is stupid. We could die tomorrow."

"I know."

"In fact, we probably will. Seems like we've used up all our luck already."

"I know."

"If we do this, and I lose you…"

Then she was kissing him. She pounced like a panther, and Dean almost fell back as she hit his chest with her full body weight. He managed to stay on his feet, dropping the shotgun, and circling her waist with his arms.

Her tongue found his, and Dean's brain almost short-circuited.

She tasted sweet, and refreshing, and the force behind the kiss stole his breath away.

Dean leaned forward, until he had her spread out on the bed. He took his weight on his elbows, refusing to break the kiss… the connection… even for a second.

Their tongues danced, and twirled… faster… hungrier… like they would not rest until they devoured each other.

Lisa tugged at the hem of his shirt, and Dean only broke the kiss long enough to pull the offending garment over his head. She ran her hands over the ridged muscles of his chest, digging in with her nails and sending ripples up his spine.

She planted her hands and pushed, forcing him to sit up. He gasped for breath. She yanked off her own top, freeing her breasts. The sight of them did little for his self-control. He grabbed her again, planting their bodies together, almost like he was trying to melt into her.

Then he broke away again.

His mind was fuzzy, and a haze seemed to have descended over his vision.

Lisa lay back, her hair splayed out around her like a dark halo. He just stared at her.

The last thing Dean wanted to do was stop… but he had to know:

"Are you sure about this?" he asked.

"I am."

"I mean really sure? Because this isn't…" he broke off, forcing himself not to look at her so he could gather some semblance of thought, "If we live through this, this won't be just a… a one night thing for me," he said, "I don't know how I can say that. It's all I've ever had. A string of girls in towns I'll never see again, but this… It feels like more."

"I know," said Lisa, "It's not a one-night thing for me either."

"I don't know if I can love you," said Dean, "Not the way you should be. I don't know if I'm capable of it."

Lisa sat up. She reached out, cupping his head in her hands. She traced small circles in his hair with her fingers.

She saw the earnestness in his face, and recognised his fear.

This was the most vulnerable Dean Winchester had ever been in his life.

She smiled. A soft smile.

"I'm not asking for forever Dean, and I'm not promising it either," she said, "For us... forever's only a day. It'll just have to be enough."

She kissed him again… and he was lost.

.

.

.


	12. Different Day

Different Day

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.

.

In the morning, things were different.

There was nothing special about it. When Dean opened his eyes, he noticed that the storm had abated, but the clouds were still huddled over the landscape like a shadowy cloak, and there was a chill in the air, raising gooseflesh all along his arms.

Lisa was still asleep.

She was facing him, one hand curled under her chin, her hair spread across the white pillow like a starburst. She looked peaceful. Content.

Just looking at her, he knew he should have woken up with that same feeling… Like the missing piece of his life had finally slotted into place.

Instead, he felt nothing but dread.

Dread, and a cold certainty that he would never again know the wonder he'd felt last night.

Every part of him had been alive.

He could recall every touch, every kiss, with a fierceness that burned.

Through it all, neither of them said a word. They didn't have to. They were linked on a level neither had ever found before – shifting and moving in perfect symmetry like a dance learned long ago.

It was… perfect.

And now it was over.

The day of blood had come.

Dean let her sleep and took a shower. He tried to use the time, this brief lull, to formulate a strategy.

The demon was coming tonight.

Of that he was almost certain.

But how to fight it?

It was more powerful than anything Dean had killed before. Lisa's victories lay in the fact that she'd survived. Ending the evil sonofabitch's life was something else… Something Dean wasn't sure he could do alone.

He needed to get hold of his dad.

When Dean got out of the shower, Lisa was awake. She was sitting up in bed, the sheet wrapped around her waist. She looked a little awkward, and shy. Dean actually cracked a smile. It was adorable.

"We going somewhere?" she asked.

Dean didn't answer. He crossed to the window, and checked the yard for anything out of place. He saw nothing.

"Dean," she said, again, "Are we going somewhere?"

"Lisa, I want you to listen to me…"

He turned around. She actually flinched at the expression on his face – grave, serious, filled with fear and concern.

"Go home," he said.

"What?"

"I want you to go home. Please. I know I said you can stay – fight this thing with me – but I need you to go home. Now. Salt the doors and windows, lock yourself away, and don't come out until it's over."

"No, I can't…"

"Please, listen to me!"

Dean crossed the floor in two quick strides. He bent over the bed, so his face was mere inches from her own.

"Everything's changed," he said, in a choked whisper, "One way or another, this all ends tonight, and I don't want you anywhere near it. Last night you… you gave me something I thought I'd never have…"

"Dean…"

"A reason. Something outside my family that'll help me keep fighting. I've been around a time or two, and everything I've seen in this world taught me that evil prospers… good people die… and there's no way we'll ever win a war against ourselves. That's how I was raised. The things I've seen… But last night…"

"Dean…"

"Please, just… let me finish," he begged, "It's different now. I know how stupid it sounds to peg everything on one night, but I got a reason now. I had my moment, and you gave it to me, and I know I can take this thing. But not if you're with me. I can't let you get hurt. Not again. I just can't…"

"You think I can?" she asked.

"What?"

"That's why I can't leave, Dean. I spent my life making all the wrong choices. Banking on the easy answers, and now…" she bowed her head, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, "I know it's different. I feel different. And that's why I can't leave you. Don't you get it? Where you go, I go… You jump, I jump…"

"That's crazy."

"That's the way it is…"

"You jump, I jump?"

"It's called being in love, Dean," she laughed, and kissed him, "Now, where are we going?"

.

.

.

"Nothing!" said Dean, hurrying out the door of the Aniston Motel, "Not a single message!"

He wrenched open the door and climbed into the driver's seat.

"Is that normal?" asked Lisa, "When you're separated?"

"No," said Dean, "My dad always checks in. He can't help himself. He's a bit of a control freak."

"Did you try calling him again?"

"Yeah, frat boy wannabe in there let me use the phone. I tried my dad, some of his friends… It's like we're off the grid here."

"So, what do we do?"

"How far to the biggest college?" asked Dean, "I mean a major one, with a major library?"

"Probably… Indiana State," she said, "About an hour?"

"Okay," said Dean, "Let's go."

.

.

.

The drive took forever, and was over far too quick.

Lisa held his hand the whole way.

She insisted they play _Radiohead._

Again, perfect.

And far too quick.

.

.

.

The library at Indiana State was cavernous. It didn't help that the three computers they owned weren't working, and Dean and Lisa had to resort to using the outdated card system to find the section they were looking for.

Most universities had classes that specialised in ancient cultures and dead languages. They tended to accumulate the most eclectic collections. Everything from the history of beer-making in Ancient Egypt (a book Dean threw a silent salute) to obscure myths and anthologies on the occult.

"Why are these books always a foot long and ten inches thick?" asked Dean, scanning a shelf in the recesses of the domed room, "I mean, seriously, I've never come across one that's like… _How to Banish Spirits for Dummies!_ A quick reference guide, is that too much to ask?"

Lisa just laughed, and started pulling books off the shelf. They commandeered a desk near the stacks they were using, and started reading.

"You know what you're looking for?" asked Dean.

"If you explained it properly," said Lisa.

"Check the, uh… the dissertations," said Dean, "They're usually in back. They'll show you where to look. This stuff will probably be in Latin."

"Or Hebrew, or Aramaic…"

"You fluent in any of those?"

"No."

"My kinda chick…"

Lisa grinned, and returned her attention to _Mayan's Annexa Dracoma_.

An hour passed…

Then two…

Dean was starting to get worried. They couldn't afford to spend the whole day here chasing a pipe dream.

"Anything?" he asked, slamming his thick leather-bound copy of _Terror Taranus Totem, _which he half-suspected was written by Dr. Seuss on crack.

"I'm not sure," said Lisa, "Hold on."

She got up, and disappeared into the stacks.

"Where are you going?"

"A lot of these books keep referring back to one source," she said, her voice sounding hollow and disconnected as it travelled over the high wooden walls, "The quatrains of Antonio Degas… I've seen his writings mentioned in a few…"

Her voice cut off. Dean frowned, and got up to follow her, just as she was rounding the corner, carrying a slim book, with a pressed wooden cover.

"This is it," she said, sitting back down.

Dean remained standing. He planted a hand on the back of her chair, leaning over her shoulder to read.

Lisa flipped through the pages at pace, and kept referring to the other volumes still spread out on the table.

"Boy, my brother would love you," said Dean.

"What?"

"He just… well… you got the same researching style," said Dean, "He's into this stuff. Me? I just like the shooting."

Lisa patted him fondly on the cheek, "Shh, I'm trying to read," she said.

The book contained several prints, probably made from old woodcuts when the book was copied however many years ago. The images were disturbing.

Creatures perched on mounds of human skulls…

Screaming humans trapped in a vortex of shadows…

But one image was constant. Somewhere in every picture, there was a figure in the background. Clearly a man, but always cloaked and half-hidden – like the artist kept seeing it in his peripheral vision.

It's eyes were drawn like the striking flame of a match… shining… distinct.

"I don't think we're dealing with a demon," said Lisa.

"We're not?"

"If this is true, and it sounds like a first-hand account - all the others were just repeating stories they heard - then... he's not a demon. He has a name."

"What is it?"

"Azrael… sometimes referred to as Azazel…" her brow pinched as she read further, "He's a Principality."

"Like… he runs Hell like a school?"

"The Bible doesn't refer to demons as… demons," Lisa explained, "Not directly. It divides them into two distinct groups. Principalities and Powers. According to this… the Powers are the regular demons, origins unknown…"

"And the Principalities?"

"Fallen angels."

"Crap!" Dean huffed, "There's no such thing."

"You know that for sure?"

"Never seen one. Never heard of anyone who's ever seen one."

"So, therefore, they don't exist?"

"We got enough to do without chasing fairy tales," said Dean, "Does it tell us how to summon one?"

"It does," said Lisa, "But it's… complicated. And detailed. We need to copy these pages."

"Don't bother," said Dean.

He grabbed the book out of her hand, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Dean! We can't just take that!"

"Why not?" asked Dean, "You really think anyone's gonna miss it? The only students who come back here want the quiet so they can make out."

"Still, it's wrong…" Lisa grumbled.

Dean chuckled, and tickled her under her chin.

"You're so cute when you're telling me off," he said, "Speaking of making out..."

"No time," said Lisa.

"Right," said Dean, "We gotta ice that Asterix guy."

"Azrael!"

"Whatever…"

.

.

.


	13. Yesteryear

Yesteryear

.

.

.

"I was around… I dunno… six or seven when my dad took Sammy and me to see our first monster movie."

"Seven years old? That can't be right! So your brother was… what? Three years old?"

"Something like that."

Lisa shook her head and stared out the window. They were still half an hour out from Cicero. The return trip was made without a classic rock soundtrack. Instead, they'd spent the time just talking. Telling the stories of their lives.

"It was my fault," said Dean, "I saw the poster outside the movie theatre and I just had to see it. I had to. I threw such a tantrum. This was back when my dad was still trying to protect us from the truth."

"How long did that last?"

Dean gave a wry smile.

"About another year?" he shrugged, "And his version of protecting us was buying me a switch-blade and making sure I knew how to use it. Anyway, my dad knew the only way to shut me up was to take me to see it. And there was no way Sammy was letting me go to the movies without him. I think my dad saw the whole thing as some kind of ironic joke anyway…"

"What movie was it?"

"Blood Harvest. You seen it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Real twisted flick," said Dean, "About vampires. Of course, like almost all movies, they got it ass-backwards about how to deal with a real vampire when you…"

"Dean," Lisa cut in, "The point of the story?"

"Oh, right," said Dean, "Well, the only reason I wanted to see the movie was because the poster was cool. It had the name written in bright red, like blood dripping… I didn't really have any clue what a monster movie was."

"So… you were scared?" she asked.

"Not exactly," said Dean.

"Not exactly? What do you mean not exactly?"

"There's this scene…" Dean's voice went a little distant, "I remember it clear as day, it's about ten minutes into the movie. This girl's walking through her house. The lights are off, and she's fumbling around with a flashlight, trying to find the circuit breaker. She opens a door, and this vampire jumps out, screaming, eyes bloodshot, fangs as long as my fist…"

"And you weren't scared?"

"My dad said later that he'd never seen anything like it," said Dean, "I moved so fast…"

"I don't understand."

"We were in the second row. I wanted to be real close to the screen. When the monster jumped out, I shoved Sammy under the seat, and hurdled the chair in front of me. I had my switch-blade out, and I was swinging before I hit the floor."

"That's… insane…" said Lisa, "You were just a kid, and that was your reaction?"

"My dad hadn't told me everything yet. Hardly anything actually," Dean mused, "But one thing he had told me is that I have to protect my brother. That there were things in the night… things I wouldn't understand… that would come for him, and I had to look out for him."

"That sounds awful," said Lisa, softly, "I'm so sorry."

"It's not so bad," said Dean, "There are worse things than protecting your family."

Lisa nodded, and went back to her study of the passing landscape. Dean watched her out of the corner of his eye. She looked like she was trying to remember something… or piece something together. She was biting her lip again, her eyes unfocused.

"I think I always knew…" she said, at last.

"Knew what?"

"That there was something out there. Something the adults in my life tried to hide from me, or from themselves. When I was little, my grandma caught me sneaking downstairs for a cookie. She didn't want me up in the middle of the night, so she told me there was a shadow monster under the stairs, and it would grab me if I came back down again."

"She sounds like a sweet lady," said Dean.

"The next night, I grabbed my blanket and slept on the middle step," said Lisa.

"What? Why?"

"Coz the hell with the monster, that's why!"

Dean glanced to his right, taken aback by the harshness of her tone. Lisa wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were bright with sudden anger.

"Even at that age, I didn't want to live my life being afraid…" she said, "I think that's why, when I turned sixteen, the wheels came off. I'd take risks. I stole my grandmother's car, loaded it with a couple of six-packs and some friends and shot over the state line to see a Whitesnake concert…"

"_Here I go again on my own…" _sang Dean, out of tune.

"It's still not our song," said Lisa.

"Sorry."

"By the time I was eighteen, I was hanging out in the dirtiest dives I could find… Hustling pool, starting fights I couldn't win… I think I spent my whole life fighting whatever it was that took my parents. I know I always thought it was a car accident, but there was always… something else… something in the back of my head telling me that it would be coming for me someday. And when it did… I couldn't be afraid…"

"Well, you weren't," said Dean.

This time, he was the one who reached for her hand. She smiled gratefully, linking her fingers through his.

"No fear," said Dean, "No hesitation. That's what you need in this job. That's what I… what I…"

"What?" asked Lisa, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

Dean pulled a face, gripped the steering wheel that little bit harder.

"There's a reason I took off," he explained, "Last week, we were on a Hunt and I almost got Sammy killed. I hesitated. I lost focus. That's a death sentence doing what we do, so I wanted out for a while. Some time to clear my head."

"And then you end up in the one town being targeted by a powerful demon from the bowels of hell?"

"Yeah, funny how that happens, isn't it?"

Lisa laughed, but there was no humour in the sound.

"We're almost there," she said, craning forward to peer out the windscreen.

"We're still ten miles out of Cicero," said Dean.

"I know," said Lisa, "But this is where they built it. There's a lane coming up on the right. It leads behind that bank of woods over there. That's where it is."

Dean kept watch for the turn, and when it approached, he took it. Lisa was right to call it a lane. It was paved, but with cobblestone, and the car bounced on it's springs as they cantered down the long, meandering path through the woods.

There were some farmhouses off in the distance, dotted and separate. Then the trees cleared, and Dean saw a large, spired building rise up in front of him. It was dark slate grey, almost Gothic in it's grandeur.

He rolled to a stop in the small yard and they got out.

"Yup, that's definitely a church," said Dean, eyeing the eaves that still dripped with last night's rain.

"The book said we needed holy ground."

"This'll do," said Dean.

"Do you think this will work?" asked Lisa.

"Only one way to find out…"

.

.

.


	14. Summon the Dark

Summon the Dark

.

.

.

The inside of the church was, in a word, beautiful.

Passing through the small, marble-tiled vestibule, Dean and Lisa emerged into a cavernous room. It's high ceiling supported by a series of carved arches. The walls themselves were dappled stone, with a line of exquisite stained-glass windows running down either side. The pews were carved from polished ebony, and above the altar was a massive cross, bearing, in gold leaf, the words… _Seek Me, Children of the Lost…_

At the far-end of the centre aisle, on his knees before the altar, was a priest. He didn't raise his head, even though he must have heard them come in. Their footsteps echoed into the far reaches of the church as they walked down the aisle. They were almost on top of him, when he slowly crossed himself, and stood.

He was young, for a priest, maybe late-thirties or early-forties, with thinning black hair and an amiable smile. He wore the traditional robes and collar.

"Hello, father," said Dean.

"Hello, my son. Can I help you?"

"Uh, no…" said Dean, "We just came to, uh… to sit and, you know… pray."

Dean felt Lisa's elbow strike him in the ribs and he blocked a grunt of pain.

"I was just about to lock up," said the priest, "I usually spend the evenings moving around the parish, counselling people in their homes."

"Well, you don't mind if we stay here, do you?" asked Dean, "We won't be all that long. And you can lock up the sacramental silver if you want."

This time, Dean was ready, and stepped sharply left as Lisa aimed another elbow at his midsection. The priest smiled.

"Not at all," he said, "You can stay as long as you want. Light a candle. Take the time to reflect."

Dean and Lisa smiled their thanks as the priest moved past them, his robes swishing as he made his way up the aisle and out of the church. When they heard the door close behind him, Lisa swung on Dean.

"Do the words just bypass your brain and tumble out of your mouth?" she asked.

"Usually… yeah," said Dean.

He swung his backpack off his shoulder and unzipped it, scanning the items inside. They were all purchased at a jewellery store and a cheap magicke novelty shop near the university campus.

"Come on, let's get this stuff set up," said Dean, "I reckon we have about an hour."

"Hold on," said Lisa.

She stepped past him, to the low table just beside the pulpit. On it, were rows of scented candles. On a stand was a single, taller candle, it's flame guttering in the almost nonexistent breeze. She plucked the candle from it's stand, and lit one of the others, furthest to the right in the back row. Then she crossed herself and bowed her head, offering up a quick prayer.

"I didn't know you were Catholic," said Dean, coming up behind her.

"I'm not," said Lisa, "I just figured we might need the big guns on our side."

"True that," said Dean.

There was a large open area between the altar and the first pew – a space roughly fifteen feet in diameter. Large enough.

Dean pulled the Degas book out of the backpack, and flipped to a page in back. It contained a set of instructions, aided by a rough-drawn graphic. Dean studied it for a minute, picturing exactly what he had to do.

"What's first?" asked Lisa.

"Candles," said Dean, "At the four compass points – North, East, South and West."

He took out four stubby candles, gave two to Lisa, and they placed them on the appropriate spots on the floor.

Next, Dean removed a small jewellery bag. It was velvet, with a drawstring. He opened it, and tipped the contents out into his hand. There were four belly-button rings, each with a gemstone setting. They'd cost a bundle, and Dean was glad he'd brought along an extra fake credit card.

He handed two to Lisa. A diamond, and a ruby.

"Oh, Dean, you shouldn't have…" she muttered.

Dean pulled a face.

"Place them on the floor against that wall, and that wall…" he said, pointing, "The diamond's air, the ruby's fire."

Lisa moved off. Dean cupped the last two pieces – sapphire, and onyx, for water and earth.

The onyx stone, he placed behind the altar, underneath the cross. Then he hustled up the aisle, to the dividing wall separating the inner sanctum from the vestibule, and laid the sapphire down.

He returned to the candles, and drew out a bag of silica, ground into a fine powder. He ripped it open with his teeth, and drew a careful circle, connecting the four candles.

"Give me the book," said Lisa.

Dean handed it over. She also removed a small jar of olive oil from his backpack, and stepped into the circle. She found the centre, and crouched down. Pivoting on the toe of her boot, she dribbled a wide circle around herself. Then, careful not to disturb the new circle, she stepped out and, constantly checking the book, she used the oil to draw a series of strange, warped sigils.

Dean took out the last item, a packet of crushed barley. This he scattered in a rough line, leading from the point farthest south of the circle, to the back wall of the church.

He made a quick trip to his car, and when he came back, Lisa had lit the candles.

"There," said Lisa, "It's ready."

Her eyes were wide, and her breathing was distinctly heavier. Dean put an arm around her waist, and drew her close.

"It's going to work," said Dean, "Don't worry."

Lisa just nodded. Dean handed her one of the two shotguns he'd collected from the car, as well her bottle of holy water. He kept a bottle for himself. With the weapon in her hand, Lisa seemed to relax.

"Let's do this," she said.

Dean took the book from her, and found the page with the Summoning. On the opposite page was the corresponding Banishing, that would send the evil sonofabitch back to Hell.

He opened his mouth, ready to begin the incantation, then closed it again. Lisa frowned at him.

"What is it?" she asked.

Dean took a deep breath.

"Before we do this, I just, uh… I wanted to say that, uh…"

He broke off, lips pinched in a wry, self-deprecating smile. He shook his head.

"I just… I wanted you to know that…"

"It's okay," said Lisa, so gentle, "I know."

"No," said Dean, "I have to tell you that I, uh… that I…"

"Dean…"

She reached up, brushing her hand against his face, forcing him to look at her. There were wells of almost-tears in her eyes.

"I know…" she said, again.

Dean nodded. He bent down, and kissed her. It was light, and quick, and precious.

He broke the kiss, and turned back to the book.

"_Ómne aries sudatum…"_ he began.

They looked up when they heard the clunk of the door handle being turned. The front door creaked open, followed by muffled footsteps.

"Dammit!" Dean swore.

A second later, the priest appeared in the shadows at the back of the room. He'd already started down the aisle before he took in the scene in front of him. He stopped, confusion on his face.

"What's going on here?" he asked.

"Listen, father," said Dean, "This isn't what it looks like."

"What are you two doing?" he demanded, almost running down the aisle now, with choppy steps.

"I'm sorry, father," said Lisa, "But we can explain…"

"Really?" said the priest, "Because, this is a House of God, my dear. What possible explanation can there be for… whatever this is?"

"Uh, well…" Dean blabbered, "See, the thing is…"

"I'm disappointed in you, Dean," said the priest.

"I'm sorry, but I, uh…" Dean broke off, rewinding over that in his head, before saying: 'What?"

"Did you really think you could trap me?"

The priest smiled, and a yellow flush glazed over his eyes.

"It's him!" Lisa yelled, stepping back, wrenching on the slide of the shotgun.

Dean was already moving. That same instinct that had propelled him to attack a creature on a movie screen all those years ago came to bear now. From hip height, he brought the barrel of the shotgun to bear and pulled the trigger.

The cartridge exploded from the muzzle, smashing into the demon's chest. A second later, a second blast from Lisa's gun took it dead centre.

The demon staggered back. Two steps… three.. Then he waved his hand, and their guns were plucked up by an invisible force and flung to the far sides of the room. Another wave and the bottles of holy water followed.

A low, animalistic growl escaped from the demon's throat. He rolled his shoulders, fixing them with a menacing glare.

"That stung," he hissed.

Crying out, Dean leapt forward, putting himself between the demon and Lisa. He cocked back his arm, and let fly with a murderous overhand blow, aiming for the demon's temple. The punch never landed.

Dean stopped in mid-air like he'd hit some hidden force field. The air was knocked from his lungs, and he collapsed to the ground.

"Enough games," said Azazel.

His eyes flicked up, fixing on Lisa.

"Twice now, you got me," he said, "Usually, I'd keep someone like you. Feisty, strong… just reckless enough to be dangerous… But not this time. Too… much… trouble…"

Azazel raised his hand, fingers pointed toward the roof of the church. He gave a little flick of his wrist, and Dean heard a loud CRACK!

Lisa's head whipped round like it was ripped by a maddened bear and her spinal cord severed at the tip. Her whole body went loose like her bones had suddenly dissolved, and she fell.

Dean could only watch, eyes snapped wide, mouth curled in a silent scream as her head stuck the floor, gushing out a spool of blood. Then she was still…

So still…

"Lisa… Lisa…" he moaned.

"Now," said Azazel, "Where were we?"

.

.

.


	15. Lighting Candles, Casting Shadows

Lighting Candles, Casting Shadows

.

.

.

Time stopped.

The desire for movement, for breath, for life… for anything.

Lisa's eyes were closed and, in a strange way, Dean was glad.

To see them dull and empty, without that dancing spark, would have proved too much.

He focused on the blood as it spread in a slow-circling pool across the floor. A deep crimson, like the last dying ember of a fire.

Dead.

Gone.

It took everything to tear his eyes away. He picked a knotted grain in the leg of the pew across from him and just stared at it. Willing his mind to stop racing, to stop retracing the last two days in vivid colour.

Lisa in the bar, standing up to three thugs.

Her mud-smeared face, still so striking – the first thing he saw as he was dragged from the grave.

Her smile, like a promise, a she lay curled underneath him during their one night, that….

"NO!" he screamed.

"Honestly, Dean," said Azazel, "How did you think this was going to end?"

Fighting for breath, Dean turned his eyes on the demon. Azazel actually flinched, such was the power of the rage streaming from Dean's gaze.

"I'm gonna kill you," said Dean, flat and even, "I'm gonna rip you apart."

Azazel clenched his fingers, and Dean's throat constricted. He gagged. His lungs started burning and he worked his mouth, gaping, like a freshly-landed fish.

Dean's hand scrabbled across the floor, searching for something, anything to use as a weapon. His fingers found the waxy stub of the candle and he clutched at it. He chucked it across his body, but Azazel just batted it aside.

The pressure on Dean's throat eased and he sucked in precious bags of air.

"Where are the Claytons?" asked the demon, "You hid them from me."

"Got to hell…" Dean gasped.

"Not right now," said Azazel, "The baby is mine, Dean. Where are they?"

"Where you'll never find them."

"This is upsetting, Dean. You won't like me when I'm upset."

"I said…" Dean bared his teeth, "Go to hell!"

The demon snarled.

Lurching forward, he grabbed Dean by the front of his shirt and hoisted him up. A roar broke through his clenched teeth and he charged. Dean was borne backwards, unable to stop the maddened rush, as the demon slammed him into the front of the altar. The wood cracked down the middle, and Dean almost passed out from the pain that spread from the centre of his back like a wildfire.

Azazel roared again, pulled him back, then smashed him into the unyielding wood again. And again.

Dean felt his ribs crack.

A low moan gurgled in his throat and his head lolled to the side.

He tasted the metallic tang of blood bubbling up into his mouth.

His hooded eyes found Lisa's prone form beyond the circle, but Dean couldn't find the strength to summon any anger.

His arms hung limp at his sides as the demon used him like a battering ram.

"Where are they? Where are they?"

Dean found his thoughts drifting, and the pain actually seemed to recede as he fell into shadow.

He noticed the play of light coming through the multi-coloured glass, illuminating the motes of dust that seemed to swirl in a mad dance across the room.

_I'm dying…_ he thought, absently, _Huh…_

Azazel's fury seemed to pass and he let Dean go. He slid down the shattered remnants of the altar and came to rest, legs splayed out in front of him.

The demon stood up, and started pacing.

"I'll keep you alive," Azazel muttered, almost to himself, "All the trouble you've caused me… You, your brother, your father… I'll take my time with all of you. Strip the skin from your bones inch by bloody inch. I'll boil your eyeballs in their sockets. Gouge your teeth from your gums with a blunt ice pick, one by one… I'll…"

"Azazel…" that one word caused Dean to choke, and he spat a glob of blood on the floor, "Whatever you're gonna do, just do it. Coz if I have to sit here and listen to you for one more minute…"

Azazel swung round, and aimed a kick that took Dean on the side of the head. Black spots snapped in front of his eyes and Dean careened slowly sideways until his elbow hit the floor, propping him up.

"I think I misjudged you, Winchester," said Azazel, "There's nothing more I can do to you now, is there? You watched her die, and the rest is just… decoration."

Dean felt his eyes rolling back in his head. He wasn't even trying to stay conscious, but the blissful darkness just wouldn't claim him.

Yet.

"Doesn't matter," said Azazel, "I've studied every kind of torture you filthy humans have ever invented, and I'm going to do them to you anyway."

"No. You won't."

The voice seemed to come from a great distance.

Something about it tugged at the back of Dean's mind, forcing him to strain and try to sit up. His vision was swimming, in and out of focus like a dirty lens being wiped clean.

A figure, striding slowly down the aisle.

Not tall, but broad – walking with purpose and strength.

Dean spat again, more blood, and shook his head, trying to clear it.

The figure stopped in the glittering light of the candles, just short of Lisa's body, and looked down. Now Dean could make out it's features, seemingly carved from stone, so grim.

"Dad?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Azazel backing away. His feet shuffled against the floor as he scurried backwards.

"You…"

Dean was confused. Every part of him just wanted to switch off, go to sleep, but he couldn't. Why was the demon so afraid of his father? Fear radiated off him in waves.

"You're not John Winchester," the demon's voice was strained and tight.

"No," John stepped forward, carefully, across Lisa's body.

He stopped directly in front of Dean. He spared the broken young man a quick glance, before focusing on the retreating demon.

"I am the Voice of Might, and Commander of the Hosts of Heaven," he said, his voice still soft but pulsing with power, "I wield righteous judgement, and in my hand is clutched the Sword of Wrath."

"What?" Dean muttered, but John didn't appear to hear him.

"I am the one who cast you from the garden," he said, then smiled, crookedly, "In other words… your worst nightmare."

"Michael."

The name seemed to be dragged from between Azazel's teeth. His eyes were so wide they were in danger of popping out. He was sweating so furiously little beads dripped from the end of his nose.

"You crossed the line, Azrael," said Michael, "You knew your task, your parameters… And still, you dared attack the vessel."

"I'm sorry," Azazel was almost on the verge of collapse. He was trembling, "I didn't know…"

"You did," Michael cut in, "And you chose to ignore it. You stole a life that was not yours to take. I'm done with you."

Michael raised his hand, clicked his fingers, and the demon was gone.

Just vanished.

No flashy FX just, there one minute, and…

Dean felt like he was dreaming. He was almost sure of it. He couldn't string two coherent thoughts together.

The thing that looked like his father turned, and came towards him. He crouched down, and laid two fingers on Dean's forehead. His touch was rough, but a cool feeling spread out from the point of contact, slicing through his whole body in an instant.

The pain disappeared.

His head cleared.

"What…?"

"Hello, Dean," said Michael, "It's… good to meet you at last."

"What…?"

"Calm down…" said Michael, "I'll explain."

"You'd better," said Dean, "He called you Michael."

"That's my name. I'm an angel. An archangel, actually. Your father was close and I… took advantage."

"You're possessing him?" Dean found the idea repugnant.

"Just for a while," said Michael, "He'll be fine."

"But how…? Why…?"

"Sometimes prayers are answered, Dean."

"What?"

Michael glanced back over his shoulder, at Lisa, still bloody on the floor.

"She prayed for you," he said, "For you to make it through this. It was earnest, and it was pure. It reached the Throne of God."

Dean's throat seized up again. A painful, spiked ball wedged into his chest and swelled. Tears leaked from his eyes.

"He… he killed her…" Dean choked, "He just… he…"

"I know," said Michael.

"She shouldn't have been here. I begged her, but she wouldn't…"

"Stop," said Michael, "It's going to be okay."

"How?" Dean demanded, finding his rage again, "How's it going to be okay again? How am I supposed to…? I can't. Not without her."

"You have a purpose Dean," the angel was speaking with his father's voice, but it sounded strange, off, "So many people will depend on you for their lives. Your destiny isn't this. Not tears in a church, but rage on a battlefield that others never see. Your war is far from over."

"I won't," said Dean, "No more. It's cost too much, I just… I won't."

"You will," Michael smiled, a confident smile, "Once I set things right."

"What do you mean?"

"Azrael interfered," he explained, "He switched the course of destiny. Yes, you and Lisa were supposed to meet, but she wasn't meant to die. I'll correct it."

"You'll… what? You can bring her back?" Dean hardly dared hope.

"Yes, I can. And I will."

"Thank God…"

Michael's smile grew broader, but it lasted only a matter of seconds. Then he grew grave again.

"But she can't come with you," he said.

"Why not?"

"This fight isn't her fight. Not yet."

"Well, good luck explaining that to her," said Dean, "Trust me, I've tried to talk her out of it. But she wants to be with me. God knows why, but… you aren't going to change her mind. I don't care who the hell you are."

"I won't have to change her mind," said Michael, "At least… not in the normal sense. A simple mind wipe… a few adjustments to her memory, and yours, and it's done…"

"What? You can't do that!"

"I have to. Things have to be set right."

Dean was reeling from the implications of all this.

"But that'll mean… that we never…"

"You'll have your weekend together," said Michael, "It just won't… mean as much. A good time. Some fun. Fond memories, but nothing more…"

"No!" Dean snatched the front of the angel's shirt, wrenching him forward, "You can't do this! You can't take this from us!"

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"I love her," he yelled, "I never even told her that! You can't… I LOVE HER!"

"I know," said Michael, "But you have to have faith."

"Screw faith! Screw you! Don't do this!"

Michael reached up, grabbing Dean's hands. He plucked them off his shirt. He was gentle, but still Dean was powerless to resist. The strength in the angel's grip was phenomenal.

He stood up and quickly stepped back to where Lisa lay. He bent down, and touched her on the temple.

Her body trembled and she gasped.

Dean slid forward on his hands and knees. He reached under her body and pulled her onto his lap. Holding up her head, he watched as her eyelids fluttered, and opened… Her gaze was still blank, and she blinked rapidly.

"Dean…?"

"It's me," said Dean, fighting smiles and tears at once, "It's okay, I'm here…"

Michael moved past them, striding down the aisle.

"Wait!" Dean called, "What's going to happen?"

Michael stopped. When he turned around, his expression was full of compassion… and regret.

"Reality will be… fixed," he said, "But you have a couple of minutes. Say your goodbyes, Dean."

With that, he left.

Dean cradled Lisa in his arms, choking back sobs.

"What happened?" she asked, "The demon…?"

"He's gone," said Dean, "It's over."

"And we made it?"

She hadn't acknowledged the presence of the angel. Like she hadn't even noticed he was there.

She was smiling at him. A broad, open, trusting smile.

"I guess forever's going to be more than just a day," she said.

Dean managed to return the smile, but it was strained. He was aware of time trickling by, like the beginnings of an avalanche. Slow, but inevitable.

He wanted to freeze this moment. Capture it forever in his heart of hearts.

"I love you," he breathed.

Lisa managed to sit up. She had to fight Dean to do it. He refused to let her go.

"Already?" she threw him a cheeky grin, "It's kinda sudden, don't you think? We've only known each other a couple of days."

"It was enough," said Dean, "I loved you before I met you."

"You stole that from a song," said Lisa.

"You got me," said Dean.

She kissed him. Deep, and hungry, fed by uncoiled desire. It took his breath away.

"I can't believe we made it," said Lisa, when they finally broke away.

"Well, we did," said Dean, "It's over."

"So… where do we go from here?"

The question was asked so innocently that Dean couldn't look her in the eye. His gaze drifted up to the scattered blue, red and gold of the windows. They seemed filled with unnatural light.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"I guess we'll just have to figure it out," said Lisa.

"Yeah," said Dean, "We'll figure it out. Together."

The lie broke his heart.

"Sounds good," she said.

"Hey, Lisa…? Can you promise me something?"

"Okay…"

"Don't forget me."

"What?" she pulled away a bit, frowning in puzzlement, "What do you mean by that? How can I…?"

"Just promise… please…" he begged, "No matter what happens. Don't forget me."

"Dean…"

"Promise me!"

"Okay."

The look in his eyes lit a spark of fear inside her. So much hopelessness. So much sorrow.

"I promise," she said.

He touched his lips to hers. They felt warm, and safe, and he poured all of himself into the kiss. The fears of the boy who watched a fire consume his chance at happiness. The hope of the man who'd learnt fight nightmares… and win. The promise…

The promise of a lover… saying goodbye.

It was all in that kiss, and Dean let himself drown in it…

Before the world went white.

.

.

.


	16. Epilogue

Epilogue – The Road Ahead

.

.

.

_I don't know where I'm going__  
__But, I sure know where I've been__  
__Hanging on the promises__  
__In songs of yesterday_

_An' I've made up my mind__  
__I ain't wasting no more time__  
__But, here I go again__  
__Here I go again…_

"Dean, help your brother load the car."

_Though I keep searchin' for an answer_

_I never seem to find what I'm looking for…_

"Dean!"

"Huh? What?"

_Oh, Lord, I pray_

_You give me the strength to carry on…_

"Help your brother load the car!"

"Okay."

Dean clicked off the radio. A quick glance out the window showed Sam half-buried in the trunk of the Impala, trying to wedge a rifle crossways across the load bay. He was struggling, his tennis shoes squeaking against the loose shale of the motel's parking lot.

Dean grinned.

He glanced up at his father, still framed in the doorway. John seemed to be… studying him. His eyes full of questions.

"What?" asked Dean.

"You sure you're okay, son?" asked John, "Ever since you got back from your trip, you've been a little… distant."

"I'm fine, dad."

"Coz if you're not, you can take some more time off. Sammy and I didn't have any problems with that banshee. We can cope for a while."

"No, dad, I'll be alright," said Dean.

He stood up, and gathered the strap of his duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

"You had some fun though, right?" said John, "On your trip?"

"Yeah," said Dean, "I had a blast. Played some pool, made some money… met a girl."

"A girl? Really?"

"Yeah, Lisa… something…" said Dean, "She was pretty cool."

"Good," said John, "I'm glad. Now get your ass in gear. We got a long drive ahead of us."

"Where are we going anyway?" asked Dean, following John out the door.

"Michigan" said John, "Caleb's got wind of a nest of vampires."

"Vampires, huh?" Dean went quiet for a bit, then, "Hey dad? Remember that movie you took us to see? Blood Harvest. That freaky vampire flick?"

"Remember?" John laughed, "They made me pay for the rips you sliced in the screen!"

"What vampire movie?" asked Sam, who'd finally extricated himself from the trunk.

"You won't remember," said Dean, lobbing his bag into the back, "You were too young."

"Oh," Sam shrugged it off, scrabbled after Dean's bag and shut the door.

Dean helped John load their few remaining items, then slammed the trunk. John took the wheel, and Dean rode shotgun.

"Can I cut a vampire's head off this time?" came Sam's piping voice from the back.

"NO!" said John and Dean, together.

"Aw, man!" Sam moaned, "I never get to have any fun."

Sam started pouting, which Dean thought was a blessing. At least he'd shut up for about a hundred miles. John steered the car through the small Georgia town and hit the interstate.

They'd been driving for about twenty minutes, when his father turned to him.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I know I already asked this, but…"

"I'm fine, dad."

"You sure? Nothing weird happened this weekend?"

"You mean, like… _our_ kinda weird?"

"Yeah."

"No," said Dean, "I guess I just… I just feel…"

He broke off, supremely uncomfortable. Any kind of mention of feelings around John Winchester was an anathema. His father seemed concerned, though.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm missing something," said Dean. But then he shrugged, "It'll pass. Let's listen to some music."

He flipped through the tapes in the glove box, found the one he wanted and slotted it in.

"This again?" said John.

"Damn straight!" said Dean.

_I'm just another heart in need of rescue__  
__Waiting on love's sweet charity__  
__An' I'm gonna hold on__  
__For the rest of my days__  
__Cos I know what it means__  
__To walk along the lonely street of dreams_

_._

_._

_._

400 miles away, the same strands of the song echoed off the bathroom walls in Lisa Braeden's loft. The stereo was on in the living room, and when the song came on, she turned it up full blast.

She was standing over the sink, staring into the mirror – trying to recognise the face staring back at her.

It was a feeling she'd been having a lot these past few days, like she was… disconnected.

Adrift.

A feeling that only intensified now.

Struggling to hold it together, she glanced down at the thin white stick in her hand.

The blue strip.

She looked up again, meeting her reflection's eyes.

_Oh God…_ she thought, _I'm pregnant…_

And the song played on…

_An' here I go again on my own__  
__Going down the only road I've ever known__  
__Like a drifter I was born to walk alone__  
__An' I've made up my mind__  
__I ain't wasting no more time_

_But here I go again__  
__Here I go again__  
__Here I go again__  
__Here I go again_

_._

_._

_._

…the end…

.

.

A/N: So, that's it...

Thanks to everyone who stuck with this story.

It wasn't just Dean's journey, it was mine too - and yours.

Hope it was a fun ride.

See you further on down the road.

You guys rock!


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